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V * 

■'"’hfi'-  ■■ 


LOVER’S  DIARY. 

By  ALICE  CARY. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


REMOTE  STORAGE 


o- 


NEW  YORK: 

LOVELL  PKINTING  AND  PUBLISHING  CO. 
1876. 


Printed  at  Lake  Shore  Press,  Rouses  Point,  N.Y. 


Here,  and  not  here  ! 

When  following  care  about  my  house  I tread 
Sadly,  and  all  so  slowly. 

There  often  seemeth  to  be  round  me  spread 
A blessed  light,  as  if  the  place  were  holy, 

And  then  thou  art  near. 


•4# 


I 1468:9 


IV 


Dedication, 


Lost,  and  not  lost ! 

When  Silence  taketh  in  the  night  her  place, 

And  I my  soul  deliver 

All  to  sweet  dreaming  of  thy  sovereign  grace, 

I see  the  green  hills  on  beyond  the  river 
Thy  feet  have  crossed. 

And  so,  my  friend, 

I have  and  hold  thee  all  the  while  I wait. 

Musing  and  melancholy ; 

And  so  these  songs  to  thee  I dedicate. 

Whose  song  shall  flow  henceforth  serene  and  holy, 
Life  without  end. 

For,  dear,  dear  one. 

Even  as  a traveller  doomed  alone  to  go 

Through  some  wild  wintry  valley. 

Takes  in  his  poor  rude  hand  the  wayside  snow. 
And  shapes  it  to  the  likeness  of  a lily. 

So  have  I done  ; 

The  while  I wove 

Lays  that  to  men’s  minds  haply  might  recall 
Some  bower  of  bliss  unsaddened. 
Moulding  and  modulating  one  and  all 
Upon  thy  life,  so  many  lives  that  gladdened 
With  light  and  love. 


CONTENTS. 


PART  I. 

DREAM-LAND. 

Page 

Mona,  Seven  Years  Old 3 

Mona,  Eight  Years  Old 6 

Mona,  at  School 8 

Mona,  Ten  Years  Old 10 

Mona,  Fourteen  . . . , . . . . *13 

Mona,  Sleeping  . . . ’ 16 

Mona,  Spinning  . . . 18 

Mona,  Knitting 20 

Mona,  Milking 22 

Krumley 24 

Mona,  Fifteen 26 

Mona,  Perfect 29 

PART  II. 

SERENADES. 

April • • • • 33 

— May  36 

June 38 


VI 


Contents, 


July 40 

July  42 

August 45 

August 47 

September  .........  49 

November 52 

December 54 

December 56 

January  . 58 

PART  III. 

RHAPSODIES. 

My  beautiful  little  one 63 

Spring 65 

Crazy 68 

In  Absence  .• 70 

All  in  All 72 

Vagaries ....  74 

Mona,  Sad 76 

Mona,  Sick 78 

Mona,  Sick . . .80 

Inspired  . 84 

Who  wills  it  so,  may  praise 87 

Weary  89 

PART  IV. 

REJECTED. 

Proposal 95 

Refusal 97 

Thou,  that  drawest  aside  the  curtain 99 

Kiss  me,  though  you  make  believe 10 1 


Contents, 


Vll 


PART  V. 

IN  DESPAIR. 

Through  her  I felt  the  evening’s  hush 

• 105 

To  the  March  flowers  ..... 

107 

I wish  the  rose  were  not  so  red  .... 

. . no 

The  violets,  0 the  violets  ! . . . . 

. . 112 

August 

The  moon  that  was  a crescent  yesterday 

117 

O for1;he  summers  when 

. 119 

October 

. . 121 

Some  quiet  beams  at  daylight’s  close  . 

. . 124 

The  nights  they  come  and  the  nights  they  go 

. . 126 

Her  mouth  was  red,  and  you  would  say 

. 128 

I know  not  what  the  world  may  be 

130 

My  heart,  my  heart ! I ’m  weary  of  your  sighing 

• 133 

The  sun  comes  up  and  the  sun  goes  down 

135 

The  sun  has  vanished  out  o’  my  sight 

• 137 

PART  VI. 

LOVE-LETTERS. 

To  Mona 

Mona’s  Answer  ...... 

. . 144 

To  Mona  ........ 

. 146 

Mona’s  Answer 

147 

My  cruel  little  Mona 

. . 148 

Before  the  daybreak  I arise  .... 

150 

My  days  dawn  upon  me  in  sadness 

. 154 

On  receiving  some  faded  Flowers  . 

156 

When  she  had  promised  to  meet  me  . 

. . 158 

After  we  met , 

. . . 160 

Would  you  bide  in  sweet  content 

. . 162 

Contents, 


viii 

PART  VII. 
SOLILOQUIES. 

As  one  who  from  a troubled  dream  . 

Why  hast  thou  forgot  the  snow 
Mona  hath  a slender  waist  .... 
Down  either  way,  from  gentle,  dove-like  eyes 
Love’s  light  is  strange  to  you  'i  Ah  me  ! . 

Whene’er  I see  the  evening’s  sober  gray 

PART  VIII. 

LIGHT  AND  SHADOW. 

Landmarks 

Mona’s  Mother 

PART  IX. 

MONA’S  SONGS. 

All  day  yesterday  as  I spun 
Wind  that  criest  and  meanest  so  . 

Low,  sweet  and  low 

Six  skeins  and  three,  six  skeins  and  three  ! . 

Like  a poet  in  the  splendor 

Dear  heart,  a love  so  truly  true 

Little  daisy,  go  to  bed  1 

Come  from  your  long,  long  roving  . 

PART  X. 

CONVERSATIONS. 

Ah,  blame  me  gently,  though  I sit  for  hours 
Mona  asks  me  to  sing  . . . . . 


167 

169 

171 

173 

174 

175 

181 

183 

195 

197 

198 

200 

202 

203 

205 

207 

211 

213 


Contents,  ix 

I ask  Mona  to  sing  , . 215 

I said,  “ I have  a tale  to  tell  ! ” 217 

Forgive  me,  but  I needs  must  press  . . . . 219 

“ I was  blind  till  yesterday  ” 221 

I asked  my  darling  once  if  she  . . . . 223 

How,  my  love,  shall  I make  thy  bed  ? ....  225 


PART  XI. 

AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


Say,  do  you  love  me  as  in  the  olden  . . . . . 229 

We  have  been  lovers  now,  my  dear  . . . . 231 

Charity  . 233 

The  clouds  in  many  a windy  rack 235 


PART  I. 


D RE  AM-LAN  D. 


D R E AM-LAN  D. 


MONA,  SEVEN  YEARS  OLD. 


feHEN  I remember  the  time  we 
met, 

I pause  for  a little,  and  give 
God  praise. 

That  he,  of  his  grace,  in  my 
life  has  set 

That  gladdest,  goldenest  day 
of  my  days. 


4 


Dream-Land, 


Breaking  out  of  her  homespun  gown, 

Just  like  a wild-flower  out  of  its  bur  ; 

Legs  bare  to  the  knees,  and  the  shoulders  down 
To  the  waist,  I marvelled  and  mused  at  her. 

Her  hands  had  been  kissed  and  kissed  by  the 
sun 

Brown  as  berries  : she  held  her  hair 
Away  from  her  dove-like  eyes  with  one. 

And  stared  at  me,  straight  as  eyes  could  stare. 

One  moment,  — then,  being  well  content. 

She  dropt  the  tresses,  that  over  the  white. 
Clear  brow  and  sweet  eyes  came  and  went 
Like  shadows  blowing  across  the  light. 

K picture,  such  as  the  painter  loves,” 

I said,  and  passed,  but  she  would  not  stay  ; 
Those  sweet  eyes  staring,  round  as  a dove's. 
Held  me  and  haunted  me  all  the  day. 


Mona^  Seven  Years  Old, 


5 


One  foot  on  the  other,  bare  and  brown, — 
The  shining  fall  of  her  dead-leaf  hair,  — 
Legs  and  shoulders  out  of  her  gown,  — 

She  held  me  and  haunted  me,  everywhere. 


6 


Dream-Land. 


MONA,  EIGHT  YEARS  OLD. 

T^ARLING  MONA!  well  do  I know 

The  wild  March  day  she  was  eight  years 
old, 

For,  seeing  the  prints  of  her  feet  in  the  snow, 
I sat  by  our  broad,  bright  fire,  a-cold. 

She  grew  in  the  shade  of  our  house  so  grand, 
White  as  a lily,  and  just  as  meek. 

Till  I put  a rose  in  her  little  hand. 

And  the  red  ran  out  of  it  into  her  cheek. 

The  vines  from  their  arbors  I used  to  pull. 
While  yet  their  clusters  unripe  they  bore. 
Whenever  they  hid  from  my  oriel 

The  bright  geraniums  round  her  door. 


Mo7ta^  Eight  Years  Old, 


7 


When  over  the  poet’s  book  I leant, 

She  was  the  angel  of  all  the  rhymes, 
And  ere  she  had  smiled  me  sweet  consent, 
I kissed  her  in  spirit  a thousand  times. 


8 


Dream-Land, 


MONA,  AT  SCHOOL. 

IKE  down  of  thistles  the  moments  fled, 


So  soft  they  were,  and  light. 

When  we  hid  from  the  plashing  rain 
Under  the  hedge  by  the  side  of  the  lane. 
Coming  from  school  at  night. 

Ah,  never  a rose  bloomed  half  so  red. 
And  never  will  again. 

As  that  I broke  from  the  flowery  hedge 
Hiding  under  its  briery  edge 
Out  of  the  plashing  rain  ! 

I cannot  think  of  a word  she  said. 

As  memory  backward  goes. 


MonUy  at  School, 


9 


But  ah  ! she  never  had  looked  so  fair 
As  when  she  put  my  flower  in  her  hair, 

And  I called  her  my  double  rose. 

Life  never  held  an  hour  so  dread, 

But  I could  make  it  light 
With  thought  of  the  hedge-row,  and  the  lane. 
Where  we  hid  from  the  plashing  rain 
Coming  from  school  at  night ! 


10 


Dream-Land. 


MONA,  TEN  YEARS  OLD. 

TV  >T  Y darling,  dove-eyed  Mona, 

What  a merry  tune  she  sings. 
And  her  feet  they  fly  along  the  grass 
Like  little  milk-white  wings ! 


Mona^  Ten  Years  Old, 


II 


In  her  life  and  in  the  season 

’T  is  the  golden  edge  o'  th’  May, 

And  her  heart  is  like  a flower  that  lies 
In  the  sunshine  all  the  day. 

The  cows  that  feed  in  the  meadow, 
They  know  her  song  like  a call, 

And  lift  their  heads  from  the  clover, 
And  follow  her,  one  and  all,  — 

Along  the  daisied  hillsides, 

And  through  the  valleys  green. 

As  loyal  to  the  little  maid 
As  subjects  to  their  queen. 

Seeing  her,  you  would  say  the  year 
Had  stolen  the  tender  streaks 
From  all  the  wildings  of  the  woods. 
And  put  them  in  her  cheeks. 


12 


Dream-Land, 


Mona,  my  dove-eyed  Mona, — 

She  is  fair  and  she  is  gay. 

And  I would  that  for  her  beauty’s  sake 
It  might  be  always  May. 


Mona,  Fourteen, 


13 


MONA,  FOURTEEN. 

jgEAUTEOUS  little  Mona, 
Mona  gay  and  glad. 
Wearing  on  her  shoulders 
All  the  wealth  she  had,  — 
One  white  lamb,  the  tamest 
Of  all  the  meadow-flock. 
Cheated  by  the  clover-buds 
Spangled  in  her  frock  ; 
Lying  at  her  tiny  feet 

In  the  peach-tree  shade, — 
What  a charming  picture 
Little  Mona  made  ! 

Blossoms  blowing  round  her. 
Rivalling  the  hues 


14 


Dream-Land. 


Of  the  silken  ribbons 
Lacing  up  her  shoes. 

Scarce  the  dew  outsparkled 
The  brooch  upon  her  breast ; 
’T  was  her  birthday  holiday, 
And  she  wore  her  best. 

Stir  of  every  leaflet 
Bashful  blushes  woke : 

On  the  grass  beside  her 
Like  a yellow  cloak 
Lay  the  pleasant  sunshine,  — 
On  the  bough  above 
Sat  the  robin  red-breast 
Calling  to  his  love. 

Saucy  little  Mona, 

Lifting  up  her  eyes 
When  I stood  beside  her. 

With  such  a cold  surprise  ! 


Mona^  Fourteen, 


15 


Cruel  little  Mona  ! — 

t 

Very  well  she  knew 
That  just  to  have  the  buckle 
Upon  her  belt  so  blue, 

That  just  to  have  the  ribbon, 

That  laced  her  tiny  shoes. 

Or  the  brooch  upon  her  bosom 
That  sparkled  like  the  dews. 

The  half  of  my  green  acres 
I would  gladly  sell  away. 

Nor  even  think  of  counting 
The  price  I had  to  pay. 

And  yet  she  seemed  to  see  me 
With  a common,  cold  surprise,  — 
How  could  you,  little  Mona, 

Be  so  cruel  with  your  eyes  ! 


i6 


Dream-Land, 


MONA,  SLEEPING. 

y^H,  never  had  maiden 

Such  maidenly  grace ! 
Her  dream  like  a veil 
Lieth  over  her  face, 

And  the  cheek  next  the  pillow 
Is  printed  with  lace. 


I dare  not  look  on  her ! 

But  soft  as  I may, 

I will  steal  from  her  bedside 
Her  slippers  away. 

And  line  them  with  wool 
By  the  time  it  is  day. 


MonUy  Sleeping. 


17 

I hate  the  bold  moonlight 
That  treads  (as  it  dares) 

The  leaves  at  her  window 
As  if  they  were  stairs, 

And  plays  with  her  dear 
Little  hand,  unawares. 

For  her  sake,  and  not  for 
Myself,  I am  proud  : 

If  I live  when  her  bright  head 
To  death  shall  be  bowed. 

Of  the  white  leaves  of  lilies 
I dl  make  her  a shroud. 

O Mona  ! sweet  Mona  ! 

If  I by  God’s  grace 
Had  a crown,  I would  give  it 
Just  now,  to  efface 
With  kisses  on  kisses 
The  print  of  the  lace. 


2 


i8 


Dream-Land, 


MONA,  SPINNING. 

'"T^HE  woods  are  black  behind  and  before, 
The  sunshine  lieth  asleep  on  the  floor, 
And  the  rose  is  just  beginning 
From  the  bush  at  the  window  all  red  to  start. 
And  I say  as  I look  on  it.  That  is  my  heart ! 
For  out  on  the  grass  by  the  open  door 
My  little  love  sits  spinning. 

All  in  the  shade  where  the  sloe-berries  grow 
Lieth  a water  sluggish  and  low. 

And  the  lily  is  just  beginning 
To  open  her  white  leaves  hour  by  hour;  — 

I am  the  sullen  pond,  she  is  the  flower. 

And  my  thoughts  fall  alway,  pure  as  snow, 
Where  my  little  love  sits  spinning. 


Mona,  Spinning, 


19 


The  woods  are  black  as  black  can  be. 

But  through  them  shimmer  spots  o’  the  sea, 
And  the  tide  is  just  beginning. 

There  lieth  a shell  on  the  sand  apart, 

And  a wave  is  kissing  her  way  to  its  heart. 
And  the  shell  is  I,  and  the  wave  is  she 
That  sits  at  the  door-side  spinning. 


20 


Dream-Lu7td. 


MONA,  KNITTING. 

J^NITTING  at  her  mothers  door, 
Underneath  a sycamore. 

That  did  long,  white  arms  extend 
Round  about  her,  like  a friend. 

Saw  I maiden  Mona  next. 

She  was  now  become  the  text 
Of  my  dreams,  my  thoughts,  my  life. 
Would  she,  could  she  be  my  wife 

Rows  of  pinks  on  either  side. 

With  their  red  mouths  open  wide, 
And  the  quail,  with  tawny  breast 
Swelling  out  above  her  nest. 

And  the  lily's  speckled  head 
Shining  o'er  the  spearmint  bed  ; 


Mona,  Knitting. 


All  were  fair,  but  more  than  fair 
Maiden  Mona,  knitting  there. 

Round  her  eyes  the  hair  fell  down. 
Sunshine  on  a leafy  brown, — 

And  her  simple  rustic  dress 
Witched  my  worldly  eyes,  I guess, 
For  her  apron  blue  did  lie 
Like  a little  patch  o’  the  sky 
In  her  lap,  beside  the  door 
Underneath  the  sycamore. 

Something  sacred  did  divide  her 
From  me,  when  I stood  beside  her 
I was  born  to  house  and  land, — 
She  had  but  her  heart  and  hand. 
Yet  she  seemed  so  high  above 

f 

The  aspiring  of  my  love, 

That  I stood  in  bashful  shame. 
Trembling  just  to  speak  her  name. 


22 


Dream-Land, 


MONA,  MILKING. 

J FOUND  my  Mona  milking 
In  the  blithesome  summer  morn, 
When  the  dew  was  on  the  clover, 
And  the  tassel  on  the  corn, 
Sweeter  than  any  red  rose 
In  her  royal,  reigning  hours ; 

The  leaf-brown  hair  about  her  eyes. 
And  her  feet  among  the  flowers ! 


O day  of  days ! thy  memory 
Will  never  fade,  nor  pass  ; 
Patches  of  lowly  violets 

Were  clouding  all  the  grass, — 


Mona^  Milking. 


23 


The"  jealous  brook  lay  fretting 
Between  his  banks  of  moss, 

And  shrugged  his  dimpled  shoulders 
As  I lightly  leapt  across. 

Adown  her  cheek  the  blushes 
Ran  rippling  like  a veil 
Into  the  bosom,  warm  and  white 
As  the  froth  within  her  pail. 

As  I watched  her  at  her  milking 
In  the  blithesome  summer  morn, 
When  the  dew  was  on  the  clover. 
And  the  tassel  on  the  corn. 


u 


Dream-Land. 


K R U M L E Y . 

the  banks  of  Krumley, 
Lighting  up  their  shades, 

Lives  my  beauteous  Mona, 

The  fairest  maid  of  maids. 

0 blushing  flowers  of  Krumley ! 

’T  is  she  that  makes  you  sweet, 

And  I 'm  sighing  by  the  silver  waves 
That  murmur  at  her  feet, — 

1 am  sighing,  dying  by  the  waves 
That  murmur  at  her  feet. 

Ye  woody  banks  of  Krumley, 

I ’m  jealous  of  your  boughs. 

For  they  murmur  love  to  Mona 
When  she ’s  calling  home  her  cows 


Krumley. 


25 


I hate  ye,  woods  of  Krumley! 

For  your  dewy,  drooping  boughs 
Caress  and  kiss  my  Mona 

As  she's  calling  home  her  cows. 

I tell  ye,  banks  of  Krumley, 

It  is  not  your  sunny  days 
That  set  your  grassy  reaches 
With  blossoms  all  ablaze  ! 

O dim  and  dewy  dingles. 

It  is  not  your  birds  at  all 
That  make  the  air  one  warble 
From  rainy  spring  till  fall ! 

O bold,  bold  winds  of  Krumley, 

Do  ye  mean  my  heart  to  break. 
That  ye  toss  her  hair  so  lightly. 
And  so  lightly  kiss  her  cheek  ? 

O bold,  bold  winds  of  Krumley, 

Do  ye  mean  my  heart  to  break  ? 


26 


Dreain-Land. 


MONA,  FIFTEEN. 

^^^VER  the  hedge  I leaned  one  day 
To  see  my  darling  as  she  lay 
On  the  May  grass,  — it  was  not  fair, 

I know,  in  me  to  see  her  there. 

Her  soft  locks  down  her  graceful  head 
Drawn  all  one  way,  not  wide  dispread', 
Were  by  her  white  hand  gathered  in 
A shining  coil  beneath  her  chin. 

The  dress  she  wore  was  simply  wrought 
To  the  expression  of  her  thought: 

I never  saw  where  it  begun. 

Or  ended,  — she  and  it  were  one. 


MonUy  Fifteen, 


The  smile  could  only  just  get  through 
The  mouth  which  she  together  drew, 
That  tender  secret  to  repress 
Which  tells  itself  by  silentness. 

Near  her  two  lilies,  flamy  light. 
Bickering  upon  their  ground  of  white, 
O’ershadowed  by  her  beauty,  stood 
Like  the  lost  babies  in  the  wood. 

The  ruby  in  her  cheek  did  gleam 
Like  cherries  in  a pot  of  cream  ; 

But  wherefore  separate  graces  trace 
Where  all  was  one  excelling  grace } 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  above 
The  hedge,  to  chide  my  look  of  love. 
Such  fancies  did  about  her  close. 

Like  sunbeams  feeding  on  a rose. 


Dream-Land, 


28  • 


My  passion  to  sad  verse  I set, 

(I  had  not  got  my  beard  as  yet,) 

And  she  my  worship  did  not  wrong, — 
The  hedge  was  not  between  us  long. 


Mona,  Perfect. 


29 


MONA,  PERFECT. 

H ER  language  is  so  sweet  and  fit 
You  never  have  enough  of  it. 

If  she  smiles,  the  house  is  bright 
Without  any  candle-light. 

Whether  that  her  hair  is  rolled 
Round  an  ivory  comb,  or  gold, 

Pinned  or  no,  I cannot  tell. 

In  itself  it  shines  so  well. 

Whether  she  doth  wear  her  coat 
Loose,  or  buttoned  to  the  throat. 
Hems  or  ruffles,  plain  or  gay. 

Seems  to  me  the  sweetest  way. 


30 


Dream-Land, 


She ’s  so  pitiful  to  all, 

Sighs,  as  if  by  chance,  do  fall. 

Daily,  in  her  childlike  prayers. 

Getting  heavenward  unawares. 

Every  little  word  she  speaks 
Sends  the  color  to  her  cheeks. 

Rippling  high  and  rippling  low 
Over  bosom,  over  brow  ; 

So,  if  stripped  of  dress  and  veil, 

Like  Godiva  in  the  tale. 

Modesty  with  blushes  sweet 

Would  clothe  her  all  from  head  to  feet. 

By  her  innocence  she  awes 

Evil  from  her ; through  lovers  laws. 

That  so  bind  us  like  a cord. 

Each  to  all,  she  seeks  the  Lord. 


PART  II. 


SERENADES. 


SERENADES. 

I. 

APRIL. 

\ T riTH  the  yellow  daybreak 
Shimmering  on  his  wings, 
A robin  in  my  orchard-trees 
Sings  and  sings  and  sings  ; 
Come  to  my  nest  o’  down, 
Lady-bird  o’  mine. 

Come  in  your  russet  gown,  — 
Don’t  you  be  too  fine ! 

Flushing  like  great  jewels 
Warmed  alive  in  the  sun, 


3 


34 


Serenades. 


Dainty  triflers  round  me 
Are  flitting,  many  a one  ; 

Some  with  caps  of  sky-blue 
Dashed  with  flakes  of  white, — 
Some  with  golden  zigzags 
In  velvets  black  as  night. 

Some  in  pretty  bodices 

Of  green,  with  silver  specks, 
And  some  with  blood-red  ruffles 
Shivering  on  their  necks. 

How  they  flash  and  sparkle 
Round  each  orchard-tree, 

With  their  darling  little  heads 
All  aside  to  me  ! 

You  may  go,  my  beauties. 

Each  of  you  your  gate, — 

Your  finery  frightens  from  me 
My  modest  little  mate  ; 


April. 


35 


She  will  come  in  colors 
As  quiet  as  a mouse, — 

Go  your  ways  and  sing  your  lays, — 
She  shall  keep  my  house! 

So  this  robin  with  the  dews 
Shimmering  on  his  wings. 

Daily  in  my  orchard-trees 
Sings  and  sings  and  sings ; 

Come  to  my  nest  o’  down 
Lady-bird  o’  mine, — 

Come  in  your  russet  gown, — 

Don’t  you  be  too  fine  1 


3^ 


Serenades. 


II. 

MAY. 

' meet  my  darling  May, 

Under  the  boughs  of  the  milk-white  thorn, 
I hastened  early  the  summer  morn. 

Up  with  the  shining  day, — 

Ay,  long  ere  the  shining  day. 

The  clovers  white  and  high. 

Covered  her  feet  as  she  crossed  the  hill 
To  tell  that  she  loved  me  truly  still. 

And  stay  till  the  dew  was  dry, — 

Ay,  till  after  the  dew  was  dry. 

O the  sweet,  sweet  troth 
We  plighted  under  the  milk-white  thorn ! 
The  golden  cloak  of  the  friendly  morn 


May. 


37 


Softly  wrapping  us  both, — 

Ay,  closely  wrapping  us  both. 

The  cold  of  heart  may  frown. 
That  I and  my  gentle,  gentle  May, 
Under  the  milk-white  thorn  that  day. 
Talked  till  the  sun  was  down, — 
Ay,  till  after  the  sun  was  down. 


38 


Serenades. 


III. 

JUNE. 

I went  out  to  plough  in  the  corn, 

In  the  field  beside  the  mill, 

In  the  tender  light  of  the  early  morn. 

My  heart  was  calm  and  still ; 

And  the  sheep,  with  fleeces  wet  with  dew. 
Went  with  me  up  the  hill. 

To  the  meadow  by  the  mill. 


June. 


39 


As  I went  home,  at  the  shut  of  day, 

In  a window  of  the  mill 
There  hung  modest  Muriel  May, 

Like  a lily,  over  the  sill ; 

And  when  I ploughed  the  corn,  next  day. 
My  heart  would  not  be  still, 

For  Muriel,  in  the  mill. 


40 


Serenades, 


IV. 

JULY. 

the  mountain,  in  the  mowing, 
Over  valleys  bright  and  gay. 
Now  coming,  and  now  going, 

I Ve  been  hunting  all  the  day. 

I have  seen  the  river  winding 
Its  slow  mist,  fold  in  fold, 

And  the  flag-flower  meekly  binding 
Her  dim  leaves  all  in  gold. 

I have  seen  the  little  bosoms 
Of  the  larkspurs  all  aglow, 

And  the  mullein  with  her  blossoms 
Like  a turban  on  her  brow. 


July, 


41 


The  willow-flower  has  drifted 
In  sweetness  to  my  lips, 

And  the  lady-rose  has  lifted 
To  my  hand  her  finger-tips. 

I have  seen  the  ivy  twining 
With  the  low  and  knotty  grass, 
And  the  long  red  berries  shining 
In  the  pleasant  sassafras. 

But  lacking  one  thing  only. 

All  the  rest  is  incomplete,  — 
The  gladdest  place  is  lonely. 

And  the  sweetest  is  not  sweet. 

So,  the  flowery  folk  affronting 
With  my  sad  and  selfish  pain, 

I ve  been  all  day  a-hunting, 
A-hunting  all  in  vain. 


42 


Serenades, 


V. 

JULY. 

J~^OWN  by  the  mill,  down  by  the  mill, 
Through  all  the  summer  hours. 
There  they  grew  and  grew  and  grew. 

Red  and  white  and  purple  and  blue. 

My  beautiful,  beautiful  flowers ! 

Down  by  the  water,  bright  and  still. 

Set  like  sentinels  round  the  mill. 

My  beautiful,  beautiful  flowers! 

There  they  grew  and  there  they  stood 
Together,  two  and  two. 

And  some  had  hearts  like  a drop  of  blood, 
And  some  like  a drop  of  dew ; 

Down  by  the  mill,  down  by  the  mill, 
Through  all  the  summer  hours. 


July, 


43 


There  they  swung  and  there  they  swayed, 
Like  spots  of  sunshine  over  the  shade ; 

And  over  the  waters,  cold  and  still, 

My  beautiful,  beautiful  flowers ! 

And  some  had  slippers  of  yellow  gold. 

And  some  had  caps  of  snow. 

And  some  their  heads  held  high  and  bold. 
And  some  their  heads  held  low ; 

And  so  they  stood  up  side  by  side. 

Meek  and  mournful  and  modest-eyed, 
Through  all  the  summer  hours  ; 

Down  in  the  meadow,  gay  and  green. 

Like  bridesmaids  standing  round  their  queen, 
My  beautiful,  beautiful  flowers ! 

O,  to  see  them  bloom  and  blush 
Was  the  sweetest  show  of  shows ! 

The  daisy  under  the  lilac-bush. 

And  the  violet  by  the  rose ! 


44 


Serenades. 


Down  by  the  mill,  down  by  the  mill, 
Through  all  the  summer  hours, 

Some  so  high  and  some  so  low, 

But  all  as  fair  as  fair  can  grow, 

Down  by  the  water,  bright  and  still. 
My  beautiful,  beautiful  flowers  ! 

O,  the  little  maid  of  the  mill. 

That  dazzles  and  deceives. 

With  a head  as  bright  as  the  daffodil. 
And  a hand  like  the  lily-leaves. 

She  it  is  that  makes  them  grow 
Through  all  the  summer  hours ; 
They  with  cloaks  of  speckled  dyes, 
And  they  with  hoods  about  their  eyes. 
Meek  and  modest  and  high  and  low ; 
She  can  tell,  if  tell  she  will. 

Why  they  dazzle  down  by  the  mill. 
My  beautiful,  beautiful  flowers! 


August, 


45 


VI. 

AUGUST. 

^^OME  out  to  the  side  of  the  sea,  my  love, 
Come  out  to  the  side  of  the  sea ; 

The  sun  is  set,  and  the  stars  are  met. 

And  the  winds  and  the  waves  agree ; 

But  star  so  bright  nor  wave  so  light 
Brings  pleasure  or  peace  to  me. 

0 come,  for  I sit  and  wait,  alone. 

On  the  rocks  by  the  side  of  the  sea ! 

1 am  going  down  in  my  memory 
To  the  blessed  long  ago. 

When  the  golden  ground  of  the  buttercups 
Was  dashed  with  the  daisies’  snow. 


46 


Serenades. 


And  I ’m  thinking  of  all  you  said  to  me, 
And  if  it  were  true  or  no, 

While  I watch  the  tide  as  it  runs  away 
From  the  beach  so  black  and  low. 

If  I should  die,  my  love,  my  sweet, 

Die  of  your  smile  forlorn. 

Bury  me  here  by  the  side  of  the  sea, 

Where  all  my  joy  was  born. 

Where  the  waves  shall  make  my  lullaby. 

And  the  winds  from  night  till  morn 
Shall  say  to  the  rocks,  “ He  is  gone  to  sleep 
Where  all  his  joy  was  born.” 


August. 


47 


VII. 

AUGUST. 

/^OME  and  comfort  the  flowers,  my  sweet, 
Come  and  comfort  the  flowers ! 

They  're  hanging  their  heads  in  the  garden-beds. 
They  're  dying  in  all  the  bowers ; 

Like  a beam  from  the  sun,  my  pretty  one. 
Come  and  comfort  the  flowers ! 

The  violet,  she  is  faint  with  heat,— 

The  lily  is  all  forlorn  ; 

My  love  arise,  with  thy  dewy  eyes. 

Arise,  and  be  their  morn  ! 

With  thy  hand  so  white  and  thy  cheek  so  bright. 
Come  thou,  and  be  their  morn ! 


48 


Serenades, 


Sad  as  Lear  with  the  straw  on  his  head, 
The  fringed  sunflower  stands  ; 

The  rose  doth  wait  in  her  queenly  state 
To  scent  herself  in  your  hands ; 

Come,  my  dove,  my  lady  and  love. 

And  comfort  the  flowery  bands  ! 

The  robin  has  learned  your  name,  my  sweet, 
And  that  is  all  he  sings ; 

The  bee  so  brown  her  flight  keeps  down 
To  fan  your  cheek  with  her  wings, 

And  the  homely  bean  of  his  tendrils  green 
Is  tying  you  finger  rings. 

She  is  stitching  all  with  true-love  knots 
Her  sampler  round,  I know. 

With  true-love  knots  and  sanguine  spots. 
Unconscious  of  your  woe. 

Else,  pretty  flowers,  she 'd  seek  your  bowers, 
And  comfort  your  grief,  I know. 


September. 


49 


VIII. 

SEPTEMBER. 

p~^VE  after  eve,  from  early  spring, 

Till  the  autumn  winds  are  heard, 
I hear  a wild  bird  sing  and  sing, 

But  I never  see  the  bird  ! 

All  together  the  high  notes  fall, 

And  each  doth  each  prolong. 

For  he  never  ends  his  song  at  all. 

And  he  never  begins  his  song ! 

But  at  the  golden  middle  still 
He  taketh  up  his  tune. 

And  sings  from  sunset  till  the  hill 
Is  lighted  by  the  moon. 


4 


Serenades, 


The  cricket,  then,  he  creeps  in  the  sedge. 
The  hum-bee  into  the  flower. 

And  the  water  dripping  under  the  bridge 
Is  almost  still  for  an  hour. 

The  speckled  trout,  he  taketh  care 
That  not  a wave  is  stirred. 

And  the  merry-makers  everywhere, 

♦They  are  silent  for  my  bird  ! 

The  oarsman  doth  his  paddle  drop. 

And  his  craft  to  the  music  floats. 

As  my  minstrel  runneth  down  and  up 
Through  the  golden  middle  notes. 

That  all  together  rise  and  fall, 

A sweetly  tangled  throng. 

For  he  never  ends  his  song  at  all. 

And  he  never  begins  Fis  song. 


September, 


51 


Do  you  ask  me  what  he  sings  about, 
This  minstrel  of  the  grove  ? 

I cannot  tell,  nor  can  you  doubt 
That,  first  and  last,  ^t  is  Love ! 


52 


Sermades, 


IX. 

NOVEMBER. 

LEAVES,  will  you  never  be  stayed, 

Till  all  the  garden  is  bare  ? 

Fade,  fade,  fade  ! 

They  are  falling  and  filling  the  air ! 

But  what  care  I for  the  naked  bushes, 

So  long  as  my  darling  be  clothed  with  blushes 

O rain,  are  you  never  to  stop  ? 

O sky,  will  you  never  be  cleared  ? 

Drop,  drop,  drop  ! 

All  over  my  hair  and  my  beard ! 

But  what  for  the  cold  and  the  wet  care  I, 

So  long  as  my  darling  be  warm  and  dry ! 


November, 


S3 


O winds,  are  you  always  to  blow  ? 

0 clouds,  are  you  never  to  lift  ? 

Snow,  snow,  snow  ! 

1 am  up  to  my  knees  in  the  drift ! 

But  what  care  I though  it  cover  my  head, 

So  long  as  my  darling  be  safe  in  her  bed  ! 

O night,  so  laden  with  ill, 

Will  you  never  and  never  depart  ? 

Chill,  chill,  chill ! 

To  the  innermost  blood  of  my  heart ! 

But  what  care  I though  I freeze  where  I stand. 
If  my  darling  but  throw  me  a kiss  from  her  hand ! 


54 


Serenades. 


X. 

DECEMBER. 

' I 'HE  moon,  she  is  little  and  old, 

The  flowers  are  all  in  their  graves. 

And  the  withered  leaves  they  are  drifting  .by 
In  the  cruel  and  crazy  waves  ; 

For  the  boughs  are  brown,  and  the  leaves  are  down 
In  the  cold  and  curdling  waves. 


December. 


55 


The  moon  she  is  little  and  low, 

And  over  the  hill,  and  away 
By  the  huts  of  the  fishers,  I see  the  lift 
Of  the  sea-fog  cold  and  gray ; 

And  the  bars  of  sand  lying  in  toward  the  land 
Are  blind  with  the  fog  so  gray. 

I am  come  to  an  unknown  world. 

Where  all  is  dreary  and  dim. 

And  no  man  speaketh  back  to  me 
In  the  tongue  that  I speak  to  him. 

And  my  old  old  dreams  they  are  like  the  streams 
With  the  leaves  of  December  dim. 

The  moon  she  is  little  and  old. 

And  down  in  the  fields  by  the  sea 
The  cow-boy  calls  to  his  cows  in  a voice 
That  is  sad  and  strange  to  me  ; 

And  the  winds  have  a tone  that  is  not  their  own. 
Beating  about  on  the  sea. 


56 


Serenades, 


XI. 

DECEMBER. 

^^NE,  by  the  stroke  of  the  clock! 

The  time  drags  heavy  and  slow  ; 
And  I wake  from  dreams  as  full  of  thee 
As  the  clouds  are  full  of  snow, — 

From  dreams  as  white  with  thee,  my  dove. 
As  the  clouds  are  white  with  snow. 

I call  thee  all  sweet  names, 

Song-lark,  lily,  and  rose. 

And  I only  hear  the  night-fowfs  cry, 

And  the  wind  as  it  beats  and  blows. 
And  the  moan  of  the  river  under  the  hill 
Freezing  as  it  flows. 


December, 


57 


One,  by  the  stroke  of  the  clock  ! 

The  night  will  never  go  by  ! 

My  love,  thou  hast  grown  as  cold 
As  the  gray  cloud  up  in  the  sky 
Yet  come,  and  snow  thyself  in  my 
And  chill  me,  till  I die. 


! 

arms. 


58 


Serenades. 


XII. 

JANUARY, 
w HEN  Winter  sends 

The  frost  to  make  his  rude  alarms, 
The  frozen  dove  doth  leave  her  mate, 
And,  wintering  in  my  love’s  white  arms. 
Doth  for  her  melancholy  fate 
Find  fair  amends. 

When  winds  unblest, 

Blow  down  the  chimney  night  by  night, 
And  all  the  heavy  ashes  stir, 

And  from  his  song  the  cricket  fright, 
They  do  not  dare  to  come  to  her. 

In  her  warm  nest. 


January, 


59 


When  from  the  skies 
The  lady-moon  goes  in  white  grace, 
(No  matter  in  what  secret  nook 
My  love  be  hid,)  she  finds  the  place. 
And  leaves  a tender  piteous  look 
In  her  dear  eyes. 

When  snow-drifts  drive, 

And  all  the  other  flowers  expire. 

Or  beds  of  quiet  slumber  seek. 

The  red  rose  maketh  up  a fire 
Upon  my  modest  darlings  cheeky 
And  there  doth  live. 


PART  III. 

RHAPSODIES. 


RHAPSODIES. 

I. 

1\  /r  Y beautiful  little  one, 

My  little  darling  one, 

My  dove-eyed  little  one, 

She  comes  to  me  at  night ; 
When  all  the  flowers  are  sleeping, 
When  all  the  dews  are  weeping, 


64 


Rhapsodies. 


The  waters  crawling  and  creeping, 

And  only  heaven  is  bright ! 

My  beautiful  little  one, 

My  darling  little  one. 

My  sweet-eyed  little  one. 

She  comes  to  me  at  morn  ; 

When  birds  from  their  nest  are  going, 
When  waters  are  falling  and  flowing, 
When  the  winds  their  horns  are  blowing, 
And  the  light  o’  the  world  is  born. 

My  beautiful  little  one. 

My  little  darling  one. 

My  sweet-eyed  little  one, 

All  the  day  and  the  night  ; 

Her  smile  is  a soft  caressing. 

Her  blushes  a sweet  confessing. 

Her  lily-white  hand  a blessing. 

And  she  is  the  lighl  of  my  light ! 


spring. 


65 


II. 

SPRING. 

\ X 7ITH  bosoms  aflame  from  your  bath  in 
the  sunset, 

Fly  thick  to  her  windows,  ye  birds  of  the  west ; 
And  flutter  about  her,  and  fall  in  her  bosom, 
And  sing  to  her  all  that  I never  expressed. 


Sing  loudly,  sing  proudly,  my  wild-winged  min- 
strels. 

Ay,  loudly  and  proudly,  nor  stop  but  to  start. 
Until  with  the  wonderful  wealth  of  your  music 
The  air  in  her  chamber  shall  beat  like  my 
heart. 


5 


66 


Rhapsodies. 


Forsaking  the  glad,  golden  light  of  the  morning, 
The  hill-tops,  the  hedges,  besprinkled  with  dew. 
Your  choruses  render  so  sweet  and  so  tender 
That  she  shall  perceive  I am  singing  through 
you. 

Make  friends  with  my  darling  all  friendship  ex- 
ceeding. 

Fly  up  from  the  grass  as  she  walks,  and  repeat 
Soft  tunes  that  shall  tell  of  the  love  that  is 
pleading 

In  every  white  daisy  that  kisses  her  feet. 

Make  friends  with  my  darling  all  friendship  ex- 
ceeding, 

Sing  lowly,  sing  slowly,  until  she  shall  see 
The  depth  of  the  love  that  is  evermore  bleeding, 
In  every  wild  rose  that  she  breaks  from  the 


tree. 


spring. 


67 


Fold  round  her  your  light  wings,  fold  round  her 
your  bright  wings, 

And  keep  her  away  from  the  least  little  harms ; 
And  through  all  your  cooing  let  me  be  a-wooing. 
Until  I persuade  her  to  come  to  my  arms. 


68 


Rhapsodies, 


III. 

CRAZY. 

J J ER  tresses  so  soft  and  so  curling 

Are  bright  as  the  sunbeams  at  noon, 
And  the  cheek  and  the  mouth  of  my  darling 
Are  red  as  the  roses  in  June. 

My  heart  with  its  bliss  is  half  crazy, 

A week  is  as  short  as  an  hour ; 

O,  she ’s  a sweet  little  daisy ! 

O,  she ’s  a sweet  little  flower ! 

Her  tenderness  melts  into  sadness 
When  pity  her  bosom  hath  stirred. 

Yet  is  she  so  glad  in  her  gladness 
She  seemeth  half  lamb  and  half  bird. 


Crazy, 


69 


My  heart  with  its  bliss  is  set  crazy, 

A week  is  as  short  as  an  hour ; 

O,  she 's  a white  little  daisy  ! 

O,  she ’s  a bright  little  flower ! 

To  lose  her  glad  smiling  would  kill  me, 
The  day  would  be  dim  as  the  night, 
And  if  I am  blind,  as  they  tell  me. 
Pray  God  I may  come  not  to  sight ! 
My  heart  with  its  bliss  is  half  crazy, 

A week  is  as  short  as  an  hour  ; 

O,  she ’s  a dear  little  daisy. 

My  light  and  my  love  and  my  flower! 


70 


Rhapsodus, 


IV. 

IN  ABSENCE. 

TO  be  back  in  the  pleasant  fields 
To  which  my  thoughts  are  going, — 
In  some  still  place  across  my  face 
To  feel  the  west  wind  blowing, 

And  to  let  my  song  run  wild  along. 

Like  dewberries  through  the  mowing ! 

O to  feel  my  heart  once  more 
Beating  light  as  a feather,— 

To  see  the  bushes  alive  with  blushes 
Through  all  the  warm  May  weather, — 
And  O to  lie,  the  wind  and  I, 

On  the  ground,  and  sing  together ! 


In  Absence. 


71 


O to  be  under  the  apple-trees 
With  flowers  about  me  snowing, 

And  over  the  valleys  sunny  with  lilies 
To  keep  my  glad  tune  flowing, 

And  to  let  my  song  run  wild  along. 
Like  dewberries  through  the  mowing  ! 


72 


Rhapsodies. 


V. 

ALL  IN  ALL. 

O delights  are  delightful 
But  only  what  Love  gives, 

And  there  is  no  sweet,  sweet  country 

r 

But  only  where  Love  lives. 

Often  with  tender  frowning 
He  comes  to  us  for  grace ; 

So  morning  seeks  the  kiss  of  the  sun 
With  her  wings  about  her  face ! 

Pillows  downy  with  broideries 
Of  swans  are  not  so  fair 
As  any  lowly  bed  of  moss 

That  Love  will  agree  to  share. 


A ll  lit  A //. 


73 


He  now  under  palace  windows 
His  pipe  for  a queen  doth  play, 

And  now  for  a village  maid  he  trails 
A sheephook  all  the  day. 

Pitiful,  poor  little  flowers,  would 

I could  gather  you  out  of  the  dew. 

For  the  wind  and  the  rain  are  fantasies. 
And  nothing  but  Love  is  true. 

Daisy,  daflbdil,  red-leaved  rose, 

Lily  that  never  spun. 

What  lives  you  would  live,  what  joy  you 
could  give. 

If  Love  could  be  your  sun. 


74 


Rhapsodies. 


VI. 

VAGARIES. 

J WOULD  that  my  love  were  a lily  fair, 
And  I would  that  I were  a sunbeam  bold, 
Still  to  be  dressing  her  flowery  hair 
All  day  long  with  my  airy  gold. 

Or  would  she  were  the  dew  that  lies 
In  the  rose,  and  I the  rose-tree  were, 

To  fold  my  red  leaves  over  her  eyes, 

And  make  my  sweetness  a part  of  her. 

Would  / were  a breeze  that  is  where  it  will, 
And  she  a leaf  in  some  lonely  place ; 

How  I would  cling  to  her,  sing  to  her,  till 
She  gathered  me  up  in  her  green  embrace. 


Vagaries, 


75 


Or  would  that  she  were  a fawn  so  gay, 

And  I within  some  lowly  bed, 

Where  oft  her  silvery  feet  would  stray. 

And  dimple  the  turf  above  me  spread. 

Nay,  leave  the  sunbeam  the  light  that 's  his, 
And  leave  the  lily  her  airy  gold. 

And  give  me  my  Mona  just  as  she  is, 

To  kiss  and  sing  to,  and  keep  and  hold  ! 


Rhapsodies, 


76 


VII. 

MONA,  SAD. 

T HAVE  told  the  winds  my  sorrow, 

I have  told  them  o’er  ar^d  o’er. 

But  they  never  stop  to  sing  for  me. 

Or  to  kiss  me  any  more. 

I have  made  the  moon  acquainted 
With  all  my  gloomy  fear. 

But  still  she  stays  among  the  stars. 

And  leaves  me  lonesome  here. 

I ask  the  larks  to  mourn  with  me 
That  ever  I was  born. 

But  they  fly  away  and  hide  their  heads 
In  the  red  wings  of  the  morn. 


Monay  Sad. 


77 


I have  told  the  winds  my  sorrow, 
The  moon,  and  the  larks,  in  vain : 
Nothing  can  give  me  any  peace 
Till  Mona  smile  again. 


78 


Rhapsodies. 


VIII. 

MONA,  SICK. 

sun  is  set  but  there  falls  no  dew; 
The  year  is  old  and  the  moon  is  new 
My  fate  is  cruel,  my  heart  is  true, 

And  I sit  in  the  silence  and  think  of  you. 
My  dearest,  dear  little  heart. 

I sit  in  the  silence  and  watch  the  skies, 
As  the  tender  red  of  the  evening  dies  ; 

My  fate  is  cruel,  but  faith  defies 
The  dreary  night  that  between  us  lies. 

My  dearest,  dear  little  heart. 

All  the  dreaming  is  broken  through  ; 

Both  what  is  done  and  undone  I rue  ; 


Mona^  Sick, 


79 


Nothing  is  steadfast  and  nothing  true 
But  your  love  for  me  and  my  love  for  you, 

My  dearest,  dear  little  heart. 

With  the  waves  that  ebb,  with  the  waves  that 
flow. 

When  the  winds  are  loud,  when  the  winds  are 
low. 

When  the  roses  come,  when  the  roses  go. 

One  thought,  one  feeling,  is  all  I know. 

My  dearest,  dear  little  heart. 

The  time  is  weary,  the  year  is  old  ; 

The  light  o’  the  lily  burns  close  to  the  mould  ; 
The  grave  is  cruel,  the  grave  is  cold, 

But  the  other  side  is  the  city  of  gold. 

My  dearest,  dear  little  heart. 


8o 


Rhapsodies. 


IX. 

MONA,  SICK. 

AY  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 

I pray,  and  cannot  choose  but  pray. 
With  lowly  bended  brows  : 

God,  let  the  glory  come  to  pass 
Of  Easter-daisies  in  the  grass. 

And  green  leaves  on  the  boughs  ! 

All  sick  and  pale  my  Mona  lies. 

All  pale  and  sick,  with  longing  eyes,  — 

A flower  that  dies  for  rain  ; 

And  day  and  night  my  heart’s  wild  beats 
Cry  for  a thousand  sweetest  sweets 
To  charm  away  her  pain. 


Monay  Sick, 


O waters  bound  with  curdling  rime  ! 
Come  dancing  on  before  your  time, 
Through  mists  of  silver  spray  ; 

And,  picking  out  your  tenderest  trills, 

§ 

Come  yellow  bills,  come  mellow  bills. 
And  sing  your  lives  away  ! 

O little  golden-bodied  bees. 

Hum  tunes  her  heavy  heart  to  ease  ! 

And  butterflies,  so  fair. 

Upon  your  wings  of  red  and  brown. 
Balance  before  her  up  and  down. 

And  brighten  all  the  air  ! 

All  buds  with  unfulfilled  hours 
Have  l^irth  at  once  in  perfect  flowers, 
I charge  you,  in  love's  name  ; 

For  when  the  unsanctioned  is  allied 
So  nearly  to  the  sanctified. 

Not  Heaven  itself  can  blame  ! 


6 


Rhapsodies, 


Then  shall  the  lily  leave  the  shade, 

And  tend  her  like  a waiting-maid, 
Making  her  pillow  sweet  ; 

The  rose  shall  to  her  window  climb. 

And  tell  her  that  the  low-leaved  thyme 
Is  waiting  for  her  feet. 

O drowsy-lidded  violets  ! 

Constellate  flower  that  never  sets  ! 

/ 

And  blush-bells,  low  and  small, 

And  pinks,  and  pansies,  plain  and  pied. 
And  sovereign  marigolds  beside,  — 

My  Mona  needs  you  all ! 

O star-flower,  pushing  from  your  breast 
The  dead  leaves,  shine  out  with  the  rest 
And  from  the  garden  beds, 

Ye  daffodillies,  made  of  light. 

To  please  her  with  a pretty  sight. 

Toss  high  your  lovely  heads  ! 


Mona^  Sick, 


83 


Low  lying  in  her  pallid  pain, 

A flower  that  thirsts  and  dies  for  rain, 
I see  her  night  and  day  ; 

And  every  heart-beat  is  a cry. 

And  every  breath  I breathe  a sigh,  — 
O for  the  May  ! the  May  ! 


84 


Rhapsodies. 


X. 

INSPIRED. 

AT  ILDEW  was  on  the  corn,  — 

The  stubble  was  matted  and  gray, 


Inspired, 


85 


And  the  hardy  oak  and  the  knotty  thorn 
Looked  dead  on  the  hills  of  clay  ; 

The  ponds  were  covered  with  spongy  green, 
And  the  slow  rain  fell  all  day. 

All  under  the  hills  of  clay, 

And  the  boughs  so  black  and  bare, 

A shivering  woman  crouched  away 
In  the  silence  of  despair, 

And  idly  picked  the  dead  wet  leaves 
Out  of  her  dripping  hair. 

O hills,  wild  hills,”  she  cries. 

Be  friendly,  and  fall,  I pray, 

And  bury  my  child  and  me  from  the  eyes 
Of  the  cold  rebuking  day  : 

Fall  hills  so  wild  o’er  me  and  my  child. 
And  bury  us  both  away  ! ” 


86 


Rhapsodies. 


And  if  she  had  wine  and  bread, 

And  a shelter  from  the  storm, 

And  if  she  lay  that  night  in  a bed 
With  her  baby  in  her  arm,  — 

If  she  did  not  die,  it  was  not  I 
That  saved  her  out  of  harm. 

For  though  her  locks  I bound 

From  their  drenched  and  dripping  fall, 
And  though  I built  my  strength  around 
Her  weakness,  like  a wall. 

It  was  the  thought  of  Mona  drowned 
That  made  me  do  it  all. 


Rhapsodies, 


S7 


XI. 

wills  it  so,  may  praise 
The  warm  spring  days, 

When  all  adown  the  good  wife’s  garden  bed. 
Sweet  marjoram  and  camomile  are  spread  ; 

But  as  for  me,  my  voice  shall  be 
Only  for  thee,  — only,  my  love,  for  thee  ! 

Who  wills  it  may  compose  . 

His  song  about  the  rose. 

That,  to  her  maiden  blushes  doth  prefer 
The  killing  flattery  that  gathers  her  ; 

But  as  for  me,  my  eyes  can  see 
No  flower  but  thee,  — no  flower,  my  love,  but 
thee  ! 


88 


Rhapsodies  r 


Who  wills  may  celebrate 
The  saintly  state 

Of  that  white  sovereign  blossom  ever  seen 
Dressed  with  the  royal  radiance  of  a queen  ; 
But  as  for  me,  my  heart  can  be 
Enamored  only,  my  true  love,  of  thee  ! 

Who  wills  may  praise  them  both. 

Giving  each  merry  mouth 
That  smiles  upon  him  in  his  idle  way 
The  kisses  of  his  fancy,  day  by  day  ; 

But  as  for  me,  this  may  not  be, — 

Eyes,  heart,  and  soul,  my  love,  are  full  of  thee. 


Weary, 


89 


XII. 

WEARY. 

J 'M  weary,  a- weary 

Of  dust  and  of  books  ! 

I 'm  tired  of  the  tameness,  — 
I 'm  sick  of  the  sameness, — 
And  long  to  renew,  in 
My  eyes,  the  glad  looks 
Of  the  wild  little  vagrants 
That  live  by  the  brooks. 

The  strange  little  vagrants 
By  wantonness  led 
To  be  labor-sharers,  — 

To  be  water-bearers,  — 


t 


90  Rhapsodies, 

And  run  through  the  woods 
With  their  faces  flushed  red, 
Each  one  with  a bright  drop 
Of  dew  on  her  head. 

They  are  servitors,  all. 

Of  my  dear  little  queen  : 

The  pale  bear  her  languor,  — 
The  sanguine  her  anger,  — 

The  lowly  her  overmuch 
Meekness  of  mien,  — 

So  making  her  perfectest 
Maid  ever  seen. 

When  cometh  she,  casting. 
Rude  vagrants  ye  are. 

Her  charity  on  ye 
By  treading  upon  ye  } 


Weaiy. 


91 


Her  shoulders  are  dimpled, 
Her  tiny  feet  bare, 

And  her  simple  hood  lined 
With  her  leafy-brown  hair. 


PART  IV. 

REJECTED. 


REJECTED. 


PROPOSAL.  ‘ 

OINCE  you  have  made  my  heart  so  large 
and  grand, 

And  filled  it  with  love’s  furniture  complete, 
Will  you  not  deign  to  climb  up  by  my  hand, 
And  live  in  it  forever,  Mona,  sweet  ? 

O,  come,  and  hold  me  with  your  arms  so  pale ! 

O,  come,  and  fold  me  with  your  love  so  true ! 
The  hall,  the  garden,  — all  the  Cedar  Dale 
Is  yours,  and  henceforth  only  mine  through 


you. 


96 


Rejected. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

Will  you  come  and  be  my  love,  Mona  ! 

My  sweetheart,  good  and  true  ? 

I Ve  nothing  in  the  great  wide  world 
To  live  for,  — only  you. 

You  shall  be  safe  from  ill,  Mona! 

As  never  wife  has  been  ; 

The  morning-glory  by  the  door 
Shall  hardly  dare  look  in  ; 

And  when  my  merry  harvesters 
The  sheaves  together  bind, 

They  all  shall  bring  to  you,  Mona, 

The  fairest  flowers  they  find. 


Refusal. 


97 


REFUSAL. 

"\/^0U  ask  me,  Charley,  if  I will  come 
To  the  Cedar  Dale  to  live, — 

Will  I give  to  you  my  heart,  you  say,  and  you 
know 

That  I have  no  heart  to  give  ! 

Cruelly,  cruelly  kind  ! and  I would 
The  words  had  never  been  said,  — 

I love  you,  Charley,  love  you  so  well 
That  we  must  never  be  wed  ! 

The  honors  of  your  grand  old  house, 

They  are  not  for  me  to  share, — 

I can  call  you  Charley  sitting  here, 

But  I could  not  say  so  there  ! 


7 


98 


Rejected, 


Sitting  here  by  my  cabin  door 
Between  the  fields  of  corn, — 

In  the  daisy  vale,  in  the  darling  vale 
Where  first  our  love  was  born. 

Here  where  my  days  and  dreams  are  all 
A long  and  sweet  romance,  — 

Ah,  dare  we  trust  such  happiness 
To  any  change  or  chance  } 

Your  crimson  carpets  would  put  to  shame 
My  dress  of  homespun  blue  ; 

So  leave  me  with  the  sun  on  my  hair, 

And  my  bare  feet  in  the  dew, — 

And  keep  to  your  halls  with  pictured  walls. 
To  your  lands,  and  gardens  gay. 

And  I will  be  your  little  wild  rose 
Loved  far,  and  far  away. 


Rejected, 


99 


III. 

'"'P'HOU,  that  drawest  aside  the  curtain 
Letting  in  the  noon’s  broad  beams, 
Give  me  back  the  sweet,  th’  uncertain,  — 
Give,  O give  me  back  my  dreams  ! 

Take  the  larger  light  and  grander, 

Piercing  all  things  through  and  through  ; 
Give  me  back  the  misty  splendor, 

Give  me  back  the  darling  dew  ! 

Take  the  harvest’s  ripe  profusions. 

Golden  as  the  evening  skies  ; 

Give  me  back  my  soft  delusions. 

Give  me  back  my  wondering  eyes ! 


100 


Rejected, 


Take  the  passionless  caresses 
All  to  waveless  calm  allied  ; 

Give  me  back  my  heart’s  sweet  guesses, 
And  my  hopes  unsatisfied  ! 

Thou  that  mak’st  the  real  too  real, 

O,  I pray  thee  get  thee  hence  ! 

Give  me  back  my  old  ideal, 

Give  me  back  my  ignorance. 


Rejected, 


lOI 


IV. 

T^ISS  me,  though  you  make  believe, — 
Kiss  me,  though  I almost  know 
You  are  kissing  to  de^ceive, — 

Let  the  tide  a moment  flow 
Backward,  ere  it  rise  and  break 
An‘d  bear  me  down,  — for  pity’s  sake  ! 

Give  me  of  your  flowers,  one  leaf ! 

Give  me  of  your  smiles,  one  smile  ; 
Backward  hold  this  tide  of  grief 
Just  a moment,  though  the  while 
I should  feel,  and  almost  know, 

You  are  jesting  with  my  woe  ! 

Whisper  to  me  sweet  and  low  ! 

Tell  me  how  you  sit  and  weave 


102 


Rejected, 


Dreams  about  me,  though  I know 
It  is  only  make  believe  ! 

Just  a moment,  — though  't  is  plain 
You  are  trifling  with  my  pain. 


PART  V. 


IN  DESPAIR. 


IN  DESPAIR. 

I. 

' JI^^HROUGH  her  I felt  the  evening’s  hush, 
The  morning’s  golden  stir,  — 

The  blue-bird  fluttering  in  the  bush 
I only  saw  through  her. 

When  that  she  praised  the  rose’s  glow 
I knew  the  rose  was  bright, 

And  when  her  white  hand  held  the  snow, 

I saw  the  snow  was  white. 

When  the  lame  beggar-lad  besought 
Our  help,  it  was  the  sighs 


io6 


In  Despair, 


Of  her  soft,  piteous  heart,  that  brought 
The  tears  into  my  eyes. 

So  poor  was  I in  every  grace, 

It  must  have  been  that  she 

Saw  her  sweet  self  in  my  rough  face. 
And  loved  a shade,  not  me. 

I did  not  know  till  hope  was  gone 
The  power  which  love  confers  ; 

I stepped  from  world  to  world  upon 
A smile,  a look  of  hers  ! 

And  now,  if  light  be  in  the  sky, 

'T  is  light  I cannot  see : 

O Mona,  Mona,  I must  die. 

Or  you  must  live  for  me  ! 


To  the  March  Flowers. 


107 


II. 

TO  THE  MARCH  FLOWERS. 

TV"  EEP  your  muddy  covers  close,  flowers, 
Nor  dare  to  open  your  eyes. 

For  all  this  month  your  lover,  the  Sun, 
Will  only  tell  you  lies  ! 

He  will  only  tell  you  lies,  flowers. 

Pretty,  and  undesigned. 

For  through  this  rough  and  cloudy  month 
He  never  knows  his  mind. 

The  daffodil  may  look  at  him 
With  her  bright  and  angry  eyes. 


io8 


In  Despair. 


But  pinks  that  come  with  their  hearts  in  their, 
mouths 

Must  wait  for  warmer  skies. 


O daisies,  stay  in  your  grassy  house, 

Ye  poor  deluded  things. 

And  keep  your  little  white  fingers  shut 
Away  from  his  golden  rings. 


Ye  meadow  lilies,  leopard-like. 

Under  the  mould,  so  deep. 

Crouch  close,  and  keep  your  spotted  cubs 
For  a month  yet,  fast  asleep. 


Trusty  not,  ye  modest  violets, 

His  promises  to  you, 

Nor  dare  upon  his  fickle  smile 
To  broaden  your  kerchiefs  blue. 


To  the  March  Flowers, 


109 


Ye  little  twinkling  marigolds, 

’T  is  wise  sometimes  to  doubt, 

And  though  the  wind  should  shake  his  moans 
To  music,  look  not  out. 

’T  is  a rough  and  churlish  month,  flowers. 

So  heed  ye  my  advice. 

Else  you  will  wake,  to  go  to  sleep 
With  cheeks  as  cold  as  ice. 


I lO 


In  Despair, 


III. 

J WISH  the  rose  were  not  so  red, 

The  bird  more  bashful  with  his  glee, 
They  join  themselves  to  bliss  that  I 
Shall  never  in  my  lifetime  see. 

I wish  the  wind  would  cease  to  play 
Upon  the  elm-leaves  at  the  door. 

The  old,  sweet  tunes,  — I cannot  bear 
Ever  to  hear  them  any  more. 

O,  gift  of  God’s  good  speech  abused  ! 

I do  not  mean  the  things  I say  ; 

Last  year  my  single  plot  of  flowers 
Within  the  sickle’s  compass  lay  ; 


/;/  Despair, 


III 


And  when  I think  how  little  ground 
They  needed,  and  how  sagely  sweet 
They  taught  me  their  humility, 
Growing  no  higher  than  my  feet, 

I cannot  bear  to  see  the  Spring 

Renew  again  her  soft  green  lease,  — 
The  honeysuckle’s  scarlet  throat 

Reminds  me  of  my  murdered  peace. 


In  Despair. 


1 12 


IV. 

violets,  O the  violets  ! 

They  are  dripping  with  the  dew, 
The  lark  is  singing  in  the  sky, 

And  the  sky  is  bright  and  blue  ; 

But  my  heart  is  aching,  aching,  — 
Aching  through  and  through  ! 

The  daisies,  O the  daisies! 

They  are  round  and  fair  of  face, 

And  the  daffodil  has  bribed  the  sun 
To  lie  in  her  embrace  ; 

But  my  heart  is  crying,  dying 
Like  a soul  that  lacketh  grace  I 


In  Despair, 


113 

The  roses,  O the  roses  ! 

They  have  pledged  and  plighted  faith 
To  the  winds  that  kiss  and  kiss  them 
Till  they  faint  and  fail  for  breath  ; 

But  my  heart  is  bleeding,  bleeding, — 
Bleeding  slowly  into  death ! 


In  Despair, 


114 


V. 

AUGUST. 

^INK^out  of  sight  to  the  realm  of  night, 

O false  and  faithless  day  ; 

For  the  lovely  leaves  of  my  rose  of  morn 
Are  broken  and  blown  away. 

My  leaves  are  dead,  — my  hopes  are  fled,  — 
And  my  heart  is  sick  with  pain,  — 

Swing  open  silver  gates  o'  the  night. 

And  bring  my  dream  again  ! 

The  flower  o'  the  wind  on  the  grass  lies  blind. 
And,  spite  the  daffodil's  pride. 

His  pot  of  gold  grows  heavy  to  hold, 

And  he  hangs  his  head  aside. 


August, 


US 

There  is  only  one,  the  flower  o'  the  sun, 

That  still  from  morn  till  night 
Can  stand  and  stare  through  her  curly  bait, 

In  the  face  of  the  flaunting  light. 


Hasten  away,  O faithless  day, 

For  the  light  of  my  life  is  set. 

And  thou  seemest  to  me  to  only  be 
A cruel  and  cold  coquette. 

Now  with  a smile  to  flatter  awhile 
The  creeping,  credulous  rills. 

And  now  to  lie  on  a bank  o’  the  sky, 
Kissing  the  heads  o’  the  hills  ! 


Your  frown  will  fade,  my  little  maid. 

When  I sink  to  the  arms  of  sleep  ; 

And  my  rose  will  seem  to  bloom  in  my  dream 
When  the  dews  so  softly  weep. 


ii6 


In  Despair, 


Then  haste  away,  O faithless  day 

That  has  turned  my  peace  to  pain,  — 
Swing  open  silver  gates  o’  the  west. 
And  bring  my  dream  again  ! 


In  Despair. 


117 


VI. 

' moon  that  was  a crescent  yesterday, 

Comes  up  so  full  of  light 
No  cloud  can  touch  her  but  her  golden  round 
Spills  over : h is  a night 


In  Despair, 


irS 

To  make  the  roughest  sailor  on  the  sea 
Forget  the  chill,  white  foam, 

And  tattoo  on  his  brawny  arms  the  names 
Of  his  wild  crew  at  home. 

A night  to  make  sad  housewives,  all  too  long 
Unpraised,  take  heart  again. 

And  mend  with  some  poor  blushing  shred  of 
love 

Their  tattered  lives.  In  vain 

Comes  the  full  moon  to  those  unfriended  men 
Whose  lives  are  wastes  of  care ; 

No  hearth,  — no  row  of  shining  little  heads 
To  think  of,  anywhere. 

God  help  them  ! what  is  outward  loveliness, 
Unless  within  the  mind 
Some  lovely  memory  all  in  shadow  lies 
Waiting  to  be  defined  ! 


In  Despair. 


II9 


VII. 

FOR  the  summers  when 
• I used  to  sit  as  idle  as  the  grass, 
Watching  the  clouds  make  pictures  in  the  air! 
Ah  me  ! I am  no  longer  what  I was,  — 

The  rose,  so  lovely  then. 

Can  hardly  now  persuade  me  she  is  .fair. 


O for  the  golden  key 

That  would  unlock  the  chamber  of  delight ! 

From  whence  I used  to  see 
The  morning  coming  up  so  warm  and  bright. 
In  promise  of  a day,  whose  far-off  even 
Lay  sweet  among  the  stars,  and  close  to  heaven. 


120 


In  Despair. 


O for  a single  hour 

To  have  life’s  knot  of  evil  and  self-blame 
All  straightened,  all  undone ! 

As  in  the  time  when  fancy  had  the  power 
The  weariest  and  forlornest  day  to  bless, 
At  sight  of  any  common  little  flower 

That  warmed  her  pallid  fingers  in  the  sun. 
And  had  no  garment  but  her  loveliness. 


October. 


I2I 


VIII. 

OCTOBER. 

J^ROM  working  her  green  miracles, 

Among  the  leaves  and  in  the  grass, 
Summer  has  gone,  alas  ! alas  ! 

In  every  wind  her  requiem  swells  ; 

The  fountain’s  stony  lip  is  dry, 

And  all  the  overarching  sky 
Is  sombre  as  a smoky  glass. 

Her  bridegroom  Sun,  erewhile  so  brave, 

Alone  in  his  high  chamber  grieves  ; 

The  trees  shake  down  their  pleasant  leaves. 
And  stand,  bareheaded,  at  her  grave. 

The  misty  waves,  in  silver  calms. 

Lie  like  a flock  of  sleepy  lambs ; 

Busy  the  black-browed  spider  weaves. 


122 


In  Despair, 


The  clouds,  like  bars  of  dull,  dry  sand 
From  which  the  liquid  blue  has  fled, 
Darken  the  east,  and  rusty  red 
Gathers  about  the  sunset  land. 

No  mother  bird  is  heard  to  call 
Her  downy  nestlings  now,  and  all 
The  flowery  folk  have  gone  to  bed. 

The  light  strikes  faint  at  noontide's  hour 
Against  the  low,  gray,  stubble-tracts. 
Leaned  to  the  hills’  long,  dusky  backs  ; 
The  cornfields,  like  a golden  shower, 
Rustle  and  patter  ; the  rough  bur 
Has  broken  faith  to  the  grasshopper ; 
And  all  the  scene  its  glory  lacks. 

Summer  has  gone,  — her  brief  life  spent; 
Alas  ! no  longer  might  she  stay,  — 

And  I,  alas  ! can  only  say 


October. 


123 


My  peace  went  with  her  when  she  went : 
I had  my  flower,  as  she  her  flowers, 
And  now  must  while  the  weary  hours 
With  dole  as  tender  as  I may. 


124 


In  Despair, 


IX. 

OOME  quiet  beams  at  daylight’s  close 
Had  stayed  behind  the  rest, 

To  watch  the  shutting  of  the  rose 
Of  twilight  in  the  west ; 

And  I,  beneath  a tree  with  joints 
Of  knots,  had  watched  the  blue. 

Until  I saw  the  silver  points 
Of  evening’s  star  come  through ; 

My  heart  unconsciously,  the  light 
Reflecting,  till  surprised. 

It  found  one  image,  strangely  bright 
Within  it,  crystallized. 


In  Despair, 


125 


’T  was  summer,  and  the  hopes  of  youth 
Were  in  their  sweet  extreme, 

And  phantasy  was  like  the  truth, 

And  truth  was  like  a dream. 

Even  at  midnight,  wild  and  sad. 

The  sunshine  seemed  not  gone. 

But  only  just  as  if  it  had 
A cloak  of  shadows  on. 

The  morn  unwinked  her  golden  eyes 
Before  her  time,  next  day,  — 

Would  that  such  morns  would  never  rise. 
Or  never  fade,  away  ! 


126 


In  Despair, 


X. 

nights  they  come  and  the  nights  they 

go, 

And  the  rosy  twilights  round  them  lie,  — 
And  the  stars  are  bright  and  the  stars  are 
sweet, 

And  I sit  in  the  silence  and  watch  them  meet ; 
But  all  the  while  my  heart  beats  low. 

For  the  moon  is  out  of  my  sky  ! 

The  seasons  come  and  the  seasons  go,  — ' 
Spring  so  gay,  and  winter  so  drear,  — 

And  I sit  in  the  light  of  the  golden  hours, 
And  pick  the  blushing  and  beautiful  flowers ; 
But  all  the  while  my  heart  beats  low. 

For  the  May  is  out  of  my  year  ! 


In  Despair, 


127 


The  mornings  come  and  the  mornings  go, — 
Yellow  and  purple,  crimson  and  gray, — 
And  the  milkmaid  sings  as  she  calls  her  cows. 
And  the  farm  lad  whistles  the  while  he  ploughs  ; 
But  all  the  while  my  heart  beats  low, 

For  the  lark,  the  lark  is  away  ! 

The  rain  descends,  and  the*  gardens  grow. 

And  the  camomile  makes  green  her  bed. 
And  the  bushes  are  full  as  bushes  can  hold. 

Of  bells  of  silver  and  globes  of  gold  ; 

But  all  the  while  my  heart  beats  low. 

For  the  rose,  the  rose,  she  is  dead  ! 

The  tides  they  ebb  and  the  tides  they  flow, 
And  the  sun  shines  more  than  the  storm  can 
frown. 

And  the  ships  with  their  white  sails  flowing  free 
Like  a forest  of  silver  cover  the  sea  ; 

And  all  the  while  my  heart  beats  low, 

For  the  one  good  ship  gone  down  ! 


128 


In  Despair, 


XI. 


T T ER  mouth  was  red,  and  you  would 
Bespoke  a spirit  glad, 

But  for  the  undulating  play 
Of  serious  thought  it  had. 


The  pathos  of  her  wondrous  eyes 
Was  made  of  shade  and  sun,  — 
Half  expectation,  half  surprise. 
Terror  and  trust  in  one. 


Her  voice  was  sweeter  than  a sigh, 
And  sadder  than  a song. 

And  quiet  as  the  shadow  by 
Her  side,  she  went  along. 


In  Despair. 


129 


The  sunshine  of  her  gayer  mood 
On  all  things  freely  shone, 

But  in  her  tender  solitude 
Of  soul,  I dwelt  alone. 

She  might  not  lift  her  head  in  pride, 

An  ostentatious  tree,  — 

An  herb  whose  flowers  spread  far  and  wide 
Under  the  grass,  was  she. 

Healing  was  in  her  hands,  and  while 
We  loved,  I knew  no  night,  — 

Strange,  that  with  just  one  little  smile 
The  world  can  be  so  bright. 

All  things  are  changed,  — I feel  aggrieved 
And  wronged,  I know  not  how,  — 

Is  it  a dream  we  ever  loved. 

Or  am  I dreaming  now  ? 


9 


130 


In  Despair, 


XII. 

T KNOW  not  what  the  world  may  be, — 
For  since  I have  nor  hopes  nor  fears, 
All  things  seem  strange  and  far  to  me. 

As  though  I had  sailed  on  some  sad  sea. 
For  years  and  years,  and  years  and  years  ! 

Sailed  through  blind  mists,  you  understand. 
And  leagues  of  bleak  and  bitter  foam  ; 
Seeing  belts  of  rock  and  bars  of  sand, 

But  never  a strip  of  flowery  land. 

And  never  the  light  of  hearth  or  home. 

All  day  and  night,  all  night  and  day, 

I sit  in  my  darkened  house  alone  ; 


In  Despair, 


131 

Come  thou,  whose  laughter  sounds  so  gay, 

Come  hither,  for  charity  come  ! and  say 

% 

What  flowers  are  faded,  and  what  are  blown. 

Does  the  great,  glad  sun,  as  he  used  to,  rise  ? 

Or  is  it  always  a weary  night  t 
A shadow  has  fallen  across  my  eyes. 

Come  hither  and  tell  me  about  the  skies, — 

Are  there  drops  of  rain  ? are  there  drops  of 
light 

Keep  not,  dear  heart,  so  far  away. 

With  thy  laughter  light  and  laughter  low. 

But  come  to  my  darkened  house,  I pray, 

And  tell  me  what  o’  the  fields  to-day,  — 

Or  lilies,  or  snow  ? or  lilies,  or  snow  t 

Do  the  hulls  of  the  ripe  nuts  hang  apart  ? 

Do  the  leaves  of  the  locust  drop  in  the  well  ? 


132 


l7t  Despair, 


Or  is  it  the  time  for  the  buds  to  start  ? 

O gay  little  heart,  O little,  gay  heart. 

Come  hither  and  tell,  come  hither  and  tell ! 

The  day  of  my  hope  is  cold  and  dead. 

The  sun  is  down  and  the  light  is  gone  ; 
Come  hither  thou  of  the  roses  red. 

Of  the  gay,  glad  heart,  and  the  golden  head. 
And  tell  o’  the  dawn,  of  the  dew  and  the 
dawn. 


In  Despair, 


133 


XIII. 


Y heart,  my  heart ! I ’m  weary  of  your 


sighing, 

Your  dumb  despair,  your  doubt  ; 

I Ve  listened,  listened,  listened  to  your  crying. 
Till  I am  wearied  out. 

Desolate,  desolate  ! and  your  wounds  full  ten* 
der,  — 

I know  it,  my  poor  heart  ; 

But  what  have  I of  help  or  hope  to  render  ? 

’T  is  better  we  should  part. 

0 

Better  to  part  at  once  with  no  returning 
(Since  I can  nothing  give) 

To  any  piteous  pain,  or  mood  of  mourning, 

So  long  as  we  both  live. 


154 


hi  Despair, 


Vex  me  no  more  ! Can  I by  my  consenting 
To  wail,  make  less  your  woe, 

Or,  with  my  foolish  tears,  or  wild  lamenting, 
Lighten  your  burdens  ? No  ! 

Nothing  can  meet,  or  match  the  sad  disgraces 
Which  Fortune  doth  prefer  ; 

You  can  but  gather  from  life’s  rough,  hard  places 
Stones  for  your  sepulchre  ! 

No  more,  no  more ! no  solace  can  befriend  you. 
My  bleeding,  pleading  heart  ; 

The  demon  you  have  cherished  needs  must  rend 
you 

Before  it  can  depart. 

• 

This,  only  this : through  sorrow  cometh  learning ; 

Through  suffering,  greater  growth  ; 

In  patience,  therefore,  wait  the  golden  morning 
That  draweth  near  us  both. 


In  Despair. 


135 


XIV. 


HE  sun  comes  up  and  the  sun  goes  down, 


And  day  and  night  are  the  same  as  one ; 
The  year  grows  green  and  the  year  grows  brown, 
And  what  is  it  all,  when  all  is  done  ! 

Grains  of  sombre,  or  shining  sand 
Sliding  into  or  out  of  the  hand. 

And  men  go  down  in  ships  to  the  seas. 

And  a hundred  ships  are  the  same  as  one  ; 
Backward  and  forward  blows  the  breeze, 

♦ 

And  what  is  it  all,  when  all  is  done  ! 

A tide,  with  never  a shore  in  sight. 

Setting  steadily  on  to  the  night. 


In  Despair. 


136 

The  fisher  droppeth  his  net  in  the  stream, 

And  a hundred  streams  are  the  same  as  one  ; 
And  the  maiden  dreameth  her  love-lit  dream, 
And  what  is  it  all,  when  all  is  done  ! 

The  net  of  the  fisher,  the  burden  breaks. 

And  alway  the  dreaming,  the  dreamer  wakes. 


In  Despair. 


137 


XV. 

' I ^HE  sun  has  vanished  out  o'  my  sight, 
And  the  moments  sadly  roll, 

For  my  heart  is  dark  with  the  thought  of  night. 
And  the  night  is  in  my  soul. 

The  day  is  set,  and  never  will  rise. 

And  my  heart  is  sick  and  sore. 

For  the  sweet,  sweet  light  of  my  true  love’s  eyes 
Will  shine  for  me  no  more. 

My  very  sleep  of  rest  is  shorn, 

I am  full  of  pain  and  care  ; 

Sick  with  the  thought  of  what  I have  borne. 
And  of  what  is  left  to  bear. 


138 


In  Despair, 


I am  sad  and  sick,  I am  sick  and  sad, 

For  my  pleasures  cease  to  please  ; 

My  soul  is  away  from  the  faith  it  had, 

And  my  heart  is  ill  at  ease. 

For  I know  the  sun  will  dry  the  stream, 

And  the  floweret  fade  in  the  frost. 

And  I know  that  my  dream  is  all  a dream. 
And  the  charm  of  the  dream  is  lost. 

There  will  never,  never  be  any  more  light. 

For  my  hope  and  I must  part  ; 

And  my  soul  is  dark  with  the  thought  of  night. 
And  the  night  is  in  my  heart. 


PART  VI. 

LOVE-LETTERS. 


LOVE-LETTERS. 

I. 

TO  MONA. 

STRANGE  fancies  I sometimes  pursue, — 
I have  been  thinking  now,  to-day. 

If  I perforce  must  write  to  you 
A letter,  what  things  could  I say  ? 


142 


Love-Letters, 


My  wits,  in  truth,  cannot  suppose 

A first  line,  — ’t  would  not  do,  I think. 

If  I were  writing  of  a rose. 

To  say  geranium  or  pink. 

And  of  the  searching  were  no  end, 

For  synonymes  of  love^  or  sweety 
Therefore,  I must  begin  with  friendy 
And  leave  my  meaning  incomplete. 

And  so  I sit  and  muse  my  hour 
Without  a single  word  to  say. 

My  thoughts  like  bees  to  some  sweet  flower 
Flying  back  to  that  delicious  day. 

When,  shadowed  by  the  hill  so  high, — 
That  all  in  dress  of  summer  state 
Was  standing  at  the  sunset  sky 

Like  some  old  shepherd  at  his  gate,  — 


To  Mona, 


143. 


I bade  you  listen  to  the  call 

Of  wind  to  wind,  and  to  the  birds, 

And  told  you  these  were  telling  all 
That  I could  never  tell  in  words. 

But  if  I should  a letter  send 

Tinged  with  the  light  of  that  sweet  sky, 
What  answer  would  you  make,  my  friend  ? 
Heart-sick,  I wait  for  your  reply. 


144 


Love-Letters. 


II. 

MONA’S  ANSWER. 

letter  came  three  hours  ago, 
And  musing  on  it  still  I sit, — 
For,  to  be  plain,  I hardly  know 
In  what  way  I should  answer  it  ! 

You  write  about  a certain  day 

When  there  were  colors  in  the  sky 
That  pleased  your  fancy,  — then  you  say. 
If  you  could  get  them  back,  would  I 

Be  charmed  as  you  are  } Here  I wait. 
Reminding  you,  my  honored  sir, 

That  you  have  quite  forgot  to  state, 

In  asking  this^  what  hues  they  were  ! 


Monas  Answer, 


1 45 


I have  my  preference,  that  's  true, 

And  hold  myself  still  ready,  when 
Your  color  is  named,  to  answer  you. 
And  so,  dear  sir,  am  yours,  till  then. 


lO 


146 


Love-Letters. 


III. 

TO  MONA. 

RANTED  the  briefest  interview, 
With  fullest,  freest  leave  to  speak. 
And  I engage  to  paint  the  hue 

That  charms  me,  on  my  lady’s  cheek. 

No  likeness  that  I could  enclose 
In  words  would  imitate  the  hue  ; 

Not  even  the  ripest  mid-May  rose. 
Therefore  I ask  the  interview. 

And  promise  my  part  to  fulfil 
At  any  hour  of  any  day,  — 

Name  one,  the  earliest  that  you  will, 

I pray,  and  so  will  ever  pray. 


Monas  Answer, 


147 


IV. 

MONA’S  ANSWER. 

jpROM  day-dawn  till  the  sunset  hours 
My  mother  keeps  me  within  call : 
Besides,  I ’m  busy  with  my  flowers, 

And  cannot  name  a day  at  all. 

I ’m  sorry  ; but  the  world  is  full 

Of  things  for  which  we  have  to  sigh  ; 
But,  lest  my  letter  grow  too  dull, 

I ’ll  break  it  off,  — and  so,  good  by. 


148 


Love-Letters, 


V. 

^ yr  Y cruel  little  Mona, 

In  vain  you  banish  me  ! 

Your  face  is  blushing  through  the  leaves 
Of  every  rose  I see. 

And  wheresoe'er  along  my  path 
A modest  daisy  stands, 

I take  her  slender  fingers  up 
And  kiss  them  for  your  hands. 

The  careful  little  violet. 

She  makes  me  think  of  you, 

Holding  her  leafy  petticoats 
From  out  the  morning  dew. 


Love-Letters, 


149 


And  when  I see  the  daffodils 
A-shining  in  their  beds, 

I cannot  choose  but  walk  that  way, 
And  touch  their  lovely  heads. 

The  buttercups,  they  nod  to  me,  — 

I whisper  with  the  wind,  — 

O Lord,  it  is  a gracious  boon 
That  nature  is  so  kind  ! 

A gracious  boon,  my  cruel  love. 

If  we  must  live  apart. 

That  fancies  such  as  these  can  come 
To  my  poor  crazy  heart. 


Love-Letters, 


150 


VI. 

^^EFORE  the  daybreak  I arise, 

And  search  to  find  if  earth  or  air 
Hold  anywhere 

The  likeness  of  thy  sweet,  sweet  eyes. 

My  loveliest  love,  my  excellently  fair. 

In  nature’s  book 
I mark  each  place 
Where  semblances  of  thee  I trace. 

With  flowers  that  have  a bleeding  look; 
For  pity,  gentleness,  and  grace, 

With  lilies  white. 

And  roses  that  are  burning  bright, 

I take  for  blushes  ; then  I catch 
The  sunbeams,  making  all  the  air 
Jealously  cold,  — they  cannot  match 
The  beauteous  crowning  of  thy  hair. 


Love-Letters, 


I 


The  pink  wild-brier 

Shines  through  the  book  in  many  a place, 
Her  good  attire 

Stolen  from  the  smiling  of  thy  face. 

The  dews  that  stay  in  thirsty  lands 
Or  withered  wood, 

Are  like  thy  hands, 

Quietly  busy  doing  good. 

The  brown-eyed  sunflower,  all  the  day 
Looking  one  way, 

I take  for  patience,  made  divine 
By  melancholy  fears,  like  thine. 

From  June  till  May, 

I ’m  searching,  searching  earth  and  air. 

To  find  out  where 
Nature  hath  copied,  to  her  praise. 

The  beauty  of  thy  gracious  ways. 

I make  believe  the  brooks  that  run 
From  sun  to  shade  and  shade  to  sun. 


152 


Love-Letters, 


Mimic  the  murmur  of  thy  joys, 
Making  their  pleasant  noise. 

Sometimes  I walk  the  stubbly  ways 
That  have  small  praise, 

But  spy  out,  nevertheless. 

Some  patch  of  moss,  all  softly  pied, 

Or  rude  stone,  with  a speckled  side. 
Telling  thy  loveliness. 

The  songs  of  birds. 

Floating  the  orchard  tops  among. 

Echo  the  music  of  thy  tongue  ; 

And  fancy  tries  to  find  what  words 
Come  nestling  to  my  breast 
With  melody  so  consummately  dressed. 

So,  dearest  heart, 

I cheat  the  cruelty 


Love-Letters, 


153 


That  keeps  us  all  too  long  apart, 
With  many  a poor  conceit  of  thee. 
Before  the  daybreak  I arise, 

But  never  anywhere 
Find  I,  in  earth  or  air. 

The  likeness  of  thy  sweet,  sweet  eyes. 


154 


Love-Letters, 


VII. 

A /r  Y days  dawn  upon  me  in  sadness, 
In  sadness  depart ; 

For,  darling,  the  old  and  sweet  madness 
Is  still  in  my  heart. 

A cloud  on  my  noontime  doth  hover, 

But  O the  delight 

That  comes  to  \me  over  and  over. 

And  night  upon  night ! 

For,  light  as  the  light  on  the  billow 
In  June’s  sunny  hours. 

Thou  liest,  in  dreams,  on  my  pillow. 

My  flower  of  flowers  ! 

I ’m  drowned  in  thy  tresses  of  brightness. 
Unloosed  from  their  bands  ; 

I ’m  kissing  those  marvels  of  whiteness. 
Thy  dear  little  hands  ! 


Love-Letters, 


I5S 


I cover  thy  eyes,  lest  my  praising 
Should  do  them  a wrong, 

And  lest  I should  wake  thee  with  gazing 
Too  fondly  and  long. 

I say,,  when  I hear  the  brook’s  purling. 

And  silvery  fret. 

Flow  gently,  and  leave  me  my  darling 
A little  while  yet  ! 

Thy  smile  is  more  sweet  in  its  beaming 
Of  kindness  for  me, 

Than  thoughts  of  their  homes  in  the  dreaming 
Of  sad  men  at  sea. 

Without  thee,  my  life  is  so  lonely. 

And  with  thee,  so  bright, 

I cannot  believe  thou  art  only 
A dream  of  the  night. 


Love-Letters, 


156 


VIII. 

ON  RECEIVING  SOME  FADED  FLOWERS. 

JUST  come  into  that  tender  lapse, 

That  beauty  from  bloom  apart ; 

Not  so  sweet  to  the  sight,  perhaps. 

But  all  as  sweet  to  the  heart. 

More  than  is  lost  from  their  primal  dyes 
They  have  gained,  you  understand  ; 

They  speak,  with  their  little,  half-closed  eyes, 
O'  the  clasp  of  your  loving  hand. 

You  gathered  them  for  me  ! that 's  it,  — 

Not  another,  in  your  stead  ; 

What  matter  though  they  are  faded  a bit ! 
What  matter  though  they  were  dead  ! 


Love-Letters. 


IS7 


Their  charm  is  not  of  the  bloom  or  blight 
Of  Time's  inconstant  hours  ; 

Ah  no  ! 't  is  in  the  immortal  light 
O’  the  flowers,  within  the  flowers. 


158 


Love-Letters, 


IX. 

WHEN  SHE  HAD  PROMISED  TO  MEET  ME. 

J ’M  waiting  under  the  apple-tree,  dear, 

Each  moment  a weary  while. 

And  the  beetle  has  crept  from  his  furrow  near. 
To  sun  himself  in  your  smile. 

Now  comes  the  moon,  and  the  flaunting  pride 
Of  the  twilight  fades  to  gray. 

The  while  she  shoulders  the  clouds  aside 
To  light  your  steps  this  way. 

Such  mortal  meanings  my  love  begets 
In  things  which  else  were  dumb, 

I think  that  the  very  violets 

Are  looking  the  way  you  ’ll  come  ! 


Love-Letters, 


IS9 


That  the  dandelions  from  the  beds 
Wherein  they  softly  lie 
Are  lifting  their  yellow  and  curly  heads 
Whenever  a step  goes  by. 

The  owl,  as  I listen,  seems  to  drown 
In  his  muffled  coat  his  cries. 

And  the  hollyhock  folds  her  red  skirt  down 
To  please  my  jealous  eyes. 

I know,  my  love,  you  are  coming  now, 

For  the  beetle  is  creeping  higher. 

And  every  blossom  of  every  bough 
Is  red  in  the  face  as  fire. 


i6o 


Love-Letters, 


X. 

AFTER  WE  MET. 

IV  /r  Y Mona,  my  sweet  Mona ! twenty  times 
I heard  your  coming  step  before  you 
came, 

And  heard  the  repetition  of  your  name 
In  every  song  of  every  different  bird  ; 

The  bluebird's  trill,  the  blackbird’s  merry  start. 
All  had  but  one  sweet  meaning  for  my  heart ; 
For  thought  was  all  of  you,  and  all  the  same. 
No  matter  what  I heard.  The  butterfly. 
Sunning  his  purples  on  the  clover-top. 

Was  ashen  to  the  color  of  my  sky 
Low-slanting  to  the  wnods.  If  Time  could  stop, 
And  in  his  old  wings  hide  his  scythe  awhile. 


Love-Letters, 


i6i 


He  must  have  done  so  then.  The  sugar-tree 
And  thawing  March  le^  honeyedly  agree 
Than  did  the  adversest  growths  of  mortal  soil 
That  blessed,  blessed  time. 


It  is  not  past, — 

Some  joys  are  born  immortal,  — that  was  one,  — 
Nor  rising  up  nor  going  down  of  sun. 

Nor  months  nor  years,  till  all  have  passed  away. 
Shall  make  it  seem  a thing  of  yesterday. 

II 


Love-Letters. 


162 


* 


XI. 

OULD  you  bide  in  sweet  content 
High  and  high  above 
Reach  of  mortal  accident  ? 

Listen,  for  the  way  is  clear  : 

Rise  and  go  with  me,  my  dear, 

To  the  land  of  love  ! 


Never  any  rainy  weather 

Falleth  there,  I guess, 

Never  any  frost  nor  snow 
Nor  rude  wind  there,  — will  you  go  ? 
Will  you  go,  my  darling,  thither  ? 
Say,  and  say  me  yes  ! 


Love-Leiiers. 


163 


In  that  blissful  land,  so  near, 

In  that  life  of  life, 

All  your  little  discontents 
Shall  be  worn  as  ornaments, ^ — 
Will  you  go  with  me,  my  dear  ? 
Will  you  be  my  wife  ? 


PART  VI J. 


SOLILOQUIES. 


SOLILOQUIES. 


I. 


y^S  one  who  from  a troubled  dream 

Awakes,  and  finds  the  tender  gleam 
Of  morning  round  him,  and  with  strength 
And  joy  arises,  even  so 
From  my  long  trance  of  pain  and  woe 
I wake,  and  find  the  day  at  length. 


The  hills,  so  dark  awhile  ago. 

Are  all  ablaze  with  flowers,  and  lo  ! 
Among  her  corn  and  hedge-rows  sweet 
Lies  Krumley  Valley  at  my  feet. 


Soliloquies. 


1 68 

Who  would  not  feel  her  beauty’s  charm  ! 

A river  lying  in  each  arm, 

And  clad  in  all  excelling  hues 

Which  summer  from  the  year  may  choose. 

My  heart  beats  quick,  — the  scornful  rose 
Of  Krumley  Valley  tenderer  grows, 

And  pities  me  at  last : my  pride 
Forsakes  me,  and  my  arms  are  wide. 

About  my  neck  I softly  wear 
The  shining  wonder  of  her  hair.  . 

A gentle  word,  a smile,  a sigh, 

A light  touch  of  her  little  hand. 

And  my  rapt  soul  is  up  so  high 
All  heaven  beneath  me  seems  to  lie, 

A dim-discovered,  rainy  land. 


Soliloquies, 


169 


II. 


HY  hast  thou  forgot  the  snow, 


And  the  leaves  so  dead  and  brown  ? 


Why  are  little  tunes  and  low 
Running  softly  up  and  down 
Through  thee  all  the  night  and  day  } 
Tell  me,  heart  of  mine,  I pray ! 

Thou  hast  been  so  long,  so  long. 
Musing  all  of  lonely  places,  — 

Of  whatever  things  are  wrong,— 

Of  disasters,  of  disgraces,  — 

How  were  those  dim  thoughts  undone. 
And  these  sweet  low  tunes  begun  ? 

Fancy,  that  was  used  to  be. 

At  her  gayest,  tinged  with  care, 


Soliloquies. 


170 

Doth  not  any  longer  see 
Killing  cankers  anywhere 
But  all  things  within  her  range 
Shine  with  gladness  ; whence  this  change  ? 

Hope  forgetteth  quite  the  clipping 
Of  her  wings  awhile  ago, 

For  like  silver  dewdrops  slipping 
On  a thread  of  sunshine,  so 
Run  sweet  tunes  along  thee,  heart ! 

Pray  they  never  more  depart. 


Soliloquies. 


III. 


M ONA  hath  a slender  waist, 

Mona  hath  a mouth  rose-red 
Once  I caught  and  held  her  fast, 
And  in  tender  whispers  said  : 
Dearest,  if  I let  you  go. 

Will  you  kiss  me?  Yes,  or  no!” 


Mona’s  step  is  light  as  air, 

Mona  hath  a thousand  charms  ; 
Like  a wild  bird  in  a snare, 

So  she  fluttered  in  my  arms. 
Giving  ne’er  a kiss  to  me,  — 

If  she  loved  me,  would  n’t  she  ? 


172 


Soliloquies, 


Mona  hath  a neck  milk-white, 

Mona’s  thoughts  are  free  from  art ; 
Being  mad  with  my  delight, 

In  the  beating  of  her  heart. 

Said  I,  If  I let  you  go. 

Will  you  love  me?  Yes,  or  no!” 

Mona  hath  a russet  gown,  — 

To  the  hem  about  her  feet 
Low  she  cast  her  eyelids  down,  » 
And  she  answered,  sweet,  so  sweet. 
Love  you,  if  you  let  me  go  1 ” 

Was  her  answer  yes,  or  no  ? 

Close  I clasped  her  slender  waist, 
Down  I drew  her  to  my  knee  ; 
Neck  and  cheek  and  mouth  I kissed, 
Mona,  will  you  marry  me  ? 

Did  your  little,  light  caress, 

Lily  fingers,  mean  me  yes  ? ” 


Soliloquies, 


173 


IV. 

J~^OWN  either  way,  from  gentle,  dove-like 
eyes, 

And  brows  as  sweet  as  ever  they  can  be. 

Falls  her  long  hair,  and  on  her  bosom  lies. 
Wide,  like  the  golden  light  of  charity. 

Lips  sweet  as  July  cherries,  and  o’errun 
With  smiles  that  dim  the  sunshine's  noontide 
hours ; 

In  spirit  saintly  even  as  a nun. 

In  heart  as  full  of  love  as  May  of  flowers. 

All  of  herself  her  pleasure  she  doth  make, 

By  giving,  and  by  ever  giving  more. 

Like  to  the  moon  that,  for  her  rough  sea's  sake, 
Maketh  her  wan  face  virgin,  o'er  and  o'er. 


174 


Soliloquies, 


V. 


y ^OVE'S  light  is  strange  to  you  ? Ah  me ! 

Your  heart  is  an  unquickened  seed, 
And  whatsoe’er  your  fortunes  be, 

I tell  you,  you  are  poor  indeed. 

What  toucheth  it,  it  maketh  bright, 

Yet  loseth  nothing,  like  the  sun, 

Within  whose  great  and  gracious  light 
A thousand  dewdrops  shine  as  one. 


Soliloquies. 


VI. 

'^y^^HENE’ER  I see  the  evening’s  sober  gray 
I cannot  choose  but  think  about  the 
day 

We  quarrelled,  I and  Mona.  Strange  we  do 

The  things  that  we  foreknow  our  hearts  must 
rue 

Until  the  day  we  die  ! Is  ’t  fate,  or  we 

That  doth  so  oft  forecast  a destiny 

Against  ourselves,  — even  to  our  utter  woe  ? 

But  to  the  quarrel.  In  a valley  low, 

We  sat  upon  the  flowery  grass  of  June  ; 

The  westering  sun  had  struck  the  hills,  and 
bright 

Fell  through  the  woods  the  fragments  of  his 
light. 


1/6 


Soliloquies. 


% 

And  on  the  silver  saddle  of  the  moon 
Gray  evening  posted  out  to  meet  the  night, 
Starry  with  splendors.  What  it  was  about 
I quite  forget,  — some  trifle  like  the  hue 
Of  a moth’s  wings,  I think,  — but  we  fell  out, 
Mona  and  I ; and  as  the  quarrel  ran, 

(Ah  ! ’t  was  about  the  daisies  we  began,) 

Each  lied  to  each,  and  said  the  lie  was  true,  — 
Then  pined  and  plained,  and,  as  all  lovers 
do, 

Made  up  with  kisses  ; for  the  love  that ’s  true 
Doth  knit  his  pretty  blushing  work  anew 
Often  as  quarrels  ravel  it  away,  — 

Against  true  love’s  enthroned  majesty. 
Experiment  is  treason  ; yet,  alas ! 

We  have  our  rebel  moments,  all  of  us. 

When  we  essay  to  thwart  and  overpass 
His  gentle  laws,  and  call  them  tyrannous 
We  quarrelled,  sitting  thus  among  the  clovers, 


Soliloquies, 


177 


And  then  we  kissed,  and  said  we  would  be 
friends, 

True  friends,  and  kissed  again,  and  said  true 
lovers. 

And  in  the  ending  of  our  foolish  strife 
My  Mona  promised  me  to  be  my  wife. 

12 


m 


PART  VIII. 


LIGHT  AND  SHADOW. 


LIGHT  AND  SHADOW. 


LANDMARKS. 

A N old  house  with  a porch  one  side 
That  brier-vines  run  across,  — 

A door  set  hospitably  wide, 

And  a roof  ridged  thick  with  moss. 


Light  and  Shadow, 


182. 

A sheep-field,  level  as  a fioor, 
Outspreading  far  and  wide, 

And  stretching  up  to  the  very  door. 

With  a thicket  either  side. 

A garden  fenced  with  a paling  low. 

And  cut  right  straight  in  two 
By  a pathway  bordered  with  row  on  row 
Of  marigolds,  pinks,  and  rue. 

A glimpse  of  distant  woods,  — but  why 
Delay  to  paint  the  place  } 

For,  after  all,  you  will  know  it  by 
The  smile-illumined  face 

Of  one  you  will  see  who  waits  for  me 
In  the  shadows  of  the  grove. 

With  shoulders  bare,  and  leaf-brown  hair. 
And  eyes  like  the  eyes  of  a dove. 


Monas  Mother, 


MONA’S  MOTHER. 

J N the  porch  that  brier-vines  smother, 
At  her  wheel,  sits  Mona’s  mother. 
O,  the  day  is  dying  bright  ! 

Roseate  shadows,  silver  dimming. 

Ruby  lights  through  amber  swimming, 
Bring  the  still  and  starry  night. 

Sudden  she  is  ’ware  of  shadows 
Going  out  across  .the  meadows 
From  the  slowly  sinking  sun, — 

Going  through  the  misty  spaces 
That  the  rippling  ruby  laces,  — 
Shadows,  like  the  violets  tangled. 

Like  the  soft  light,  softly  mingled. 

Till  the  two  seem  just  as  one  ! 


184 


Light  and  Shadow, 

Every  tell-tale  wind  doth  waft  her 
Little  breaths  of  maiden  laughter. 

O,  divinely  dies  the  day  ! 

And  the  swallow,  on  the  rafter, 

In,  her  nest  of  sticks  and  clay, — 
On  the  rafter,  up  above  her. 

With  her  patience  doth  reprove  her. 
Twittering  soft  the  time  away  ; 
Never  stopping,  never  stopping, 

With  her  wings  so  warmly  dropping 
Round  her  nest  of  sticks  and  clay. 

Take,  my  bird,  O take  some  other 
Eve  than  this  to  twitter  gay  ! ” 
Sayeth,  prayeth  Mona’s  mother. 

To  the  slender-throated  swallow 
On  her  nest  of  sticks  and  clay  ; 
For  her  sad  eyes  needs  must  follow 
Down  the  misty,  mint-sweet  hollow, 


Monas  Mother, 


i8s 

Where  the  ruby  colors  play 
With  the  gold  and  with  the  gray. 

‘'Yet,  my  little  Lady-feather, 

You  do  well  to  sit  and  sing,” 

Crieth,  sigheth  Mona’s  mother. 

“ If  you  would,  you  could  no  other. 

Can  the  leaf  fail  with  the  spring  } 

Can  the  tendril  stay  from  twining 
When  the  sap  begins  to  run  ? 

Or  the  dew-drop  keep  from  shining 
With  her  body  full  o’  the  sun  ? 

Nor  can  you,  from  gladness,  either  ; 

Therefore,  you  do  well  to  sing. 

Up  and  o’er  the  downy  lining 
Of  your  bird-bed  I can  see 
Two  round  little  heads  together. 

Pushed  out  softly  through  your  wing. 

But  alas  ! my  bird,  for  me  ! ” 


1 86  Light  and  Shadow. 

In  the  porch  with  roses  burning 
All  across,  she  sitteth  lonely. 

O,  her  soul  is  dark  with  dread  ! 
Round  and  round  her  slow  wheel  turnin 
Lady  brow  down-dropped  serenely, 

Lady  hand  uplifted  queenly. 

Pausing  in  the  spinning  only 
To  rejoin  the  broken  thread, — 
Pausing  only  for  the  winding. 

With  the  carded  silken  binding 
Of  the  flax,  the  distaff-head. 

All  along  the  branches  creeping. 

To  their  leafy  beds  of  sleeping 
Go  the  blue-birds  and  the  brown  ; 
Blackbird  stoppeth  now  his  clamor. 

And  the  little  yellowhammer 

Droppeth  head  in  winglet  down. 

Now  the  rocks  rise  bleak  and  barren 


Monas  Mother, 


Through  the  twilight,  gray  and  still ; 
In  the  marsh-land  now  the  heron 
Clappeth  close  his  horny  bill. 
Death-watch  now  begins  his  drumming, 
And  the  fire-fly,  going,  coming, 
Weaveth  zigzag  lines  of  light,  — 
Lines  of  zigzag,  golden-threaded. 

Up  the  marshy  valley,  shaded 
O’er  and  o’er  with  vapors  white. 

Now  the  lily,  open-hearted. 

Of  her  dragon-fly  deserted. 

Swinging  on  the  wind  so  low. 

Gives  herself,  with  trust  audacious. 

To  the  wild  warm  wave  that  washes 
Through  her  fingers,  soft  and  slow. 

O the  eyes  of  Mona’s  mother  ! 

Dim  they  grow  with  tears  unshed  ; 
For  no  longer  may  they  follow 


Light  and  Shadow, 


i88 

Down  the  misty  mint-sweet  hollow, 
Down  along  the  yellow  mosses 
That  the  brook  with  silver  crosses. 

Ah  ! the  day  is  dead,  is  dead  ; 

And  the  cold  and  curdling  shadows, 
Stretching  from  the  long,  low  meadows. 
Darker,  deeper,  nearer  spread, 

Till  she  cannot  see  the  twining 
Of  the  briers,  nor  see  the  lining 
Round  the  porch  of  'roses  red,  — 

Ti]l  she  cannot  see  the  hollow. 

Nor  the  little  steel-winged  swallow. 

On  her  clay-built  nest  o’erhead. 

Mona’s  mother  falleth  mourning : 

O,  ’t  is  hard,  so  hard,  to  see 
Prattling  child  to  woman  turning. 

As  to  grander  company  ! 


Monas  Mother, 


Little  heart  she  lulled  with  hushes 
Beating,  burning  up  with  blushes, 

All  with  meditative  dreaming 
On  the  dear  delicious  gleaming 
Of  the  bridal  veil  and  ring  ; 

Finding  in  the  sweet  ovations 
Of  its  new,  untried  relations 
Better  joys  than  she  can  bring. 

In  her  hand  her  wheel  she  keepeth. 
And  her  heart  within  her  leapeth. 

With  a burdened,  bashful  yearning. 

For  the  babe’s  weight  on  her  knee, 
For  the  loving  lisp  of  glee, 

Sweet  as  larks’  throats  in  the  morning. 
Sweet  as  hum  of  honey-bee. 

O my  child ! ” cries  Mona’s  mother, 
‘^Will  you,  can  you  take  another 


Light  and  Shadow, 

Name  ere  mine  upon  your  lips  ? 
Can  you,  only  for  the  asking, 

Give  to  other  hands  the  clasping 
Of  your  rosy  finger-tips  ? ” 

Fear  on  fear  her  sad  soul  borrows, — 
O the  dews  are  falling  fair ! 

But  no  fair  thing  now  can  move  her ; 
Vainly  walks  the  moon  above  her, 
Turning  out  her  golden  furrows 
On  the  cloudy  fields  of  air. 


Sudden  she  is  'ware  of  shadows. 
Coming  in  across  the  meadows. 
And  of  murmurs,  low  as  love, — 
Murmurs  mingled  like  the  meeting 
Of  the  winds,  or  like  the  beating 
Of  the  wings  of  dove  with  dove. 


Monas  Mother. 


191 

In  her  hand  the  slow  wheel  stoppeth, 
Silken  flax  from  distaff  droppeth, 

And  a cruel,  killing  pain 
Striketh  up  from  heart  to  brain  ; 

And  she  knoweth  by  that  token 
That  the  spinning  all  is  vain, 

That  the  troth-plight  has  been  spoken, 
And  the  thread  of  life  thus  broken 
Never  can  be  joined  again. 


PART  IX. 

MONA’S  SONGS. 


13 


MONA’S  SONGS. 

I. 

y^LL  day  yesterday  as  I spun, 

The  knots  came  into  my  thread, 

And  the  sound  of  my  wheel  went  hum-a-drum,’' 
Hum-a-drum,”  in  my  head! 

Last  night  when  I milked  my  cows  and  sung 
Of  the  maiden  all  forlorn. 

While  the  moon  came  up,  a little  star 
Leading  by  the  horn  ; 


196 


Monas  Songs, 


I heard  a leaping  over  the  stile, 

And  a:  whistle  blithe  and  gay, — 

The  tame  doves  knew  him,  my  lad,  my  love, 
And  flew  up  out  of  his  way.! 

I knew  it  was  tenderness  for  me 
That  made  him  save  the  moth 
That  had  dropt  into  my  milking  pail, 

And  was  drowning  in  the  froth. 

And  when  I saw  the  ripple  of  red 
Over  his  cheek  that  stole, 

I knew  the  golden  jewel  of  love 
Was  sinking  in  his  soul. 

Not  once  have  I stopt,  as  I spun  to-day 
To  pull  a knot  apart, 

* And  the  sound  of  my  wheel  goes  Marry-me 
Marry-me  ! in  my  heart. 


Mona's  Songs. 


197 


II. 


w IND  that  criest  and  meanest  so, 
Come  to  my  heart  and  say 
If  there  be  any  steps  in  the  snow, 
Leading  down  this  way  ! 

Come  from  the  black  and  stormy  wood. 
And  say  if  the  steps  you  see. 

For  I had  a dream  that  bodes  me  good. 
And  what  else  can  it  be  ! 


Monas  Songs, 


III. 

T OW,  sweet  and  low, 

Sing  to  the  shore,  O Sea  ! 

And  softly,  softly,  west  wind,  blow 
My  lover  s love  to  me  ; 

Blow  and  fill  my  heart  with  bliss 
As  full  as  it  can  be. 

Light,  low  and  light. 

Let  your  whisper,  west  wind,  be. 

And  tell  me  whether  he  sleeps  to-night 
By  the  window  nearest  me  ! 

For  if  he  loves  me  as  I love  him, 

'T  is  there  his  bed  will  be. 


MoncLS  So7tgs, 


199 


Creep,  west  wind,  creep 
Under  the  sheets,  and  see 
Whether  or  not  his  arms  in  sleep 
Are  reaching  out  for  me  ! 

For  if  the  love  of  my  love  is  mine, 

’T  is  thus  his  arms  will  be. 

About  his  pillow  flit. 

And  see  if  you  will  see 
A name  in  love’s  red  letters  writ 
On  his  cheek,  then  fly  to  me. 

For  I know  if  a name  is  written  there. 
Whose  name  the  name  must  be ! 


200 


Mona's  Songs. 


IV. 

^IX  skeins  and  three,  six  skeins  and  three! 

Good  mother,  so  you  stinted  me  ; 

And  here  they  be,  — ay,  six  and  three! 

Stop,  busy  wheel ! Stop,  noisy  wheel ! 

Long  shadows  down  my  chamber  steal. 

And  warn  me  to  make  haste  and  reel. 

T is  done,  — the  weary  stint  qomplete  ; 

0 heart  of  mine,  what  makes  you  beat 
So  fast  and  sweet,  — so  fast  and  sweet ! 

One,  two,  three  stars  along  the  skies 
Begin  to  wink  their  golden  eyes ; 

1 ’ll  leave  my  thread  all  knots  and  ties. 


Monas  So7tgs, 


201 


My  bodice  must  with  green  be  laced,  • 

And  trimmed  with  flowers  along  the  waist ; 
Slow  hands  of  mine,  make  haste,  make  haste ! 

O moon,  so  red,  so  round  and  red. 

Sweetheart  of  night,  go  straight  to  bed  ; 

Love’s  light  will  guide  us  in  your  stead. 

A-tiptoe  beckoning  me  he  stands, — 

Cease  trembling,,  foolish  little  hands. 

And  slip  the  bands,  — and  slip  the  bands ! 


202 


Monas  Songs. 


V. 

y ^IKE  a poet  in  the  splendor 
Of  his  genius,  all  complete, 

In  your  love,  so  true  and  tender, 

I am  hidden,  lost,  my  sweet. 

When  you  leave  me,  all  is  yearning. 
All  is  darkness, 'doubt,  and  woe. 
And  the  time  of  your  returning 
Is  the  only  time  I know. 


Monas  Songs, 


203 


VI. 

y~^EAR  heart,  a love  so  truly  true 
Not  Heaven  itself  opposes, 
Blown  softly  like  the  morning  dew 
Among  the  blowing  roses,  — 

From  you  to  me,  from  me  to  you. 
Like  dew  among  the  roses ! 


Ay,  more,  a love  so  free  from  stain 
High  Heaven  alone  discloses, — 
Blown  affluent  as  the  morning  rain 
Among  the  blowing  roses, — 
From  me  to  you,  and  back  again. 
Like  rain  among  the  roses ! 


204 


Monas  Softgs, 


Sweet  heart,  it  seemeth  to  my  view 
The  sweetest  of  all  posies, — 

From  you  to  me,  from  me  to  you. 
Like  rain  among  the  roses,  — 

Like  dew  and  rain,  like  rain  and  dew 
Among  the  blowing  roses  ! 


Monas  Songs. 


205 


VII. 

y ITTLE  daisy,  go  to  bed! 

I hear  the  winds  say  as  they  pass, 
Draw  your  white  face  under  the  grass,  — 
Make  of  the  leaves  about  you  spread, 
Brown  and  yellow,  a coverled.” 

Little  daisy,  go  to  bed ! 

Without  either  sigh  or  tear, 

Little  daisy,  say  good  by 

To  your  sweetheart  up  in  the  sky, — 

He  will  come  again  next  year. 

And  your  sisters  will  appear 
All  attired  in  dainty  white,  — 

Kiss  him  now,  and  say  good  night. 


Monas  Songs, 


20^ 


Early  in  the  month  of  May, 

When  the  willow  trims  her  head, 
Round  and  round  with  tassels  gay. 
You  shall  have  a wedding-day. 

And  the  clover’s  angry-red 
All  shall  turn  to  see  you  wed ; 

So  in  patience  go  to  bed. 

Then  in  every  leafy  bush 
There  shall  be  a rustling  sweet. 

And  your  pleasure  to  complete, 

When  you  with  your  lover  meet, 

With  a sympathetic  blush 
Each  young  rose  your  joy  will  greet ; 
So  to  bed  away,  away ! 

And  be  ready  for  the  May. 


Monas  Songs. 


207 


VIII. 

/^OME  from  your  long,  long  roving 
On  the  sea  so  wild  and  rough ; 
Come  to  me  tender  and  loving, 

And  I shall  be  blest  enough. 

Where  your  sails  have  been  furling. 
What  winds  have  blown  on  your  brow 
I know  not,  and  ask  not,  my  darling. 

So  that  you  come  to  me  now ! 

Sorrowful,  sinful,  and  lonely  ; 

Poor  and  despised  though  you  be ; 
All,  all  are  nothing,  if  only 

You  turn  from  the  Tempter  to  me. 


208 


Monas  Songs, 


Of  men  though  you  be  unforgiven ; 

Though  priest  be  unable  to  shrive ; 
I ’ll  pray  till  I weary  all  Heaven, 

If  only  you  come  back  alive ! 


PART  X. 


CONVERSATIONS. 


CONVERSATIONS. 

I. 

A H,  blame  me  gently,  though  I sit  for  hours 
Without  a word  to  say,  for  words  offend 
The  meanings  of  my  heart,  O dearest  friend, 
And,  sweet  and  silent,  as  the  hues  in  flowers. 
Beneath  thy  smiling  all  my  thoughts  do  blend. 


And  though  I seem  to  woo  thee  in  strange  wise. 
And  from  thy  glances  drop  my  eyelids  down. 


212 


Conversations, 


Or  clip  thy  tender  blushes  with  a frown, 
Thou,  sweetest,  wilt  forgive  the  rebel  guise 
Worn  by  a heart  too  loyally  thine  own. 

For  when  I answer  with  so  poor  a grace 
Thy  darling  witcheries,  ’t  is  but  a feint 
To  put  a mist  between  me  and  my  saint 
Lest  I fall  blind  with  gazing  on  her  face  ; 

But  thou  hast  felt,  not  seen,  the  worship  meant. 

Should  I make  bolder  courtship,  pray  thee  rise 
And  shade  the  lamp,  and  trim  the  evening  fire, 
Lest  I should  clothe  my  love  in  the  attire 
Of  homely  phrases,  and  thy  sovereign  eyes 
Refuse  the  heaven  to  which  I dare  aspire. 


Conversations, 


213 


II. 

MONA  ASKS  ME  TO  SING. 

“ OING  me  a song,  sing  me  a song!” 
'‘Well,  what  shall  it  be.^” 

" Sing  of  a cowboy,  keeping  cows 
In  a pasture  by  the  sea ; 

And  make  it  sweet,  and  make  it  sweet. 
As  ever  it  can  be.” 

"A  heap  of  rocks  upon  one  hand, 
Rough  with  old  history. 

And  on  the  other,  high  green  land, 
Leaving  flower  and  tree. 

And  going  down  to  sit  at  the  feet 
Of  the  cold,  complaining  sea. 


214 


Conversations, 


^'Far  off,  a broken,  chalky  hill. 

Rising  bleak  and  high  ; 

On  her  shoulder  white  a village,  that 
Is  toppling  on  the  sky  ; 

And  a brook  with  the  fingers  of  the  grass 
In  his  watery  curls,  close  by. 

do  not  care  to  have  him  fair. 

Either  in  face  or  limb. 

But,  as  through  a cup  of  porcelain, 

A red  rose  showeth,  dim. 

So,  through  the  clay  he  weareth,  make 
His  spirit  show  in  him 

So  great,  he  cares  not  to  be  great 
In  the  proud,  repelling  eyes 
Of  the  world  outside  the  hem  of  pines 
That  round  his  pasture  lies, — 

Just  poor  enough. to  feel  he  is  rich, — 
Simple  enough  to  be  wise. 


Conversations, 


215 


III. 

I ASK  MONA  TO  SING. 

''  ^ song  of  love, 

And  set  thee  like  a picture  there 
Thou  givest  me  a task  above 

What  any  mortal  hand  may  dare ! 

So  tender,  and  so  true  of  heart ; 

So  meekly  great,  so  wisely  good  ; 

I could  not  paint  thee  as  thou  art. 

And  would  not,  darling,  if  I could. 

Though  fond  the  task,  I must  forbear. 

Or,  painting,  do  thee  grievous  wrong  ; 

Else,  darling,  all  men  everywhere 

Will  know  thee,  when  they  read  my  song ! 


2i6 


Conversations, 


But  were  this  not,  — could  words  portray 
Our  love  ? the  sweetest  ever  chose  ? 

What  can  the  dull,  cold  shadow  say 
About  the  red,  ripe,  living  rose  ? 

Ask  me  no  song  ! words  lose  their  power 
Where  true  enthroned  Love  doth  sit. 

And  fall  like  dew-drops  from  a flower 
When  the  wind  comes  and  kisses  it. 

Such  music  who  should  understand. 

Though  my  heart  sung  it,  beat  by  beat  ? 

Ah,  we  are  travellers  in  a land 

Where  no  man  speaks  our  language,  sweet ! ” 


Conversations. 


217 


IV. 

J SAID,  I have  a tale  to  tell ! ” 

I said  it  with  a blush  and  sigh  ; 

We  were  together  at  the  well, 

Mona,  my  little  love,  and  I ; 

Serenely  up  the  cloudless  sky 
The  queen  moon  walked  in  grace  alone ; 
And,  with  her  cheek  and  hair  o’erblown 
With  light,  as  with  a golden  veil. 

She  stood  and  waited  for  the  tale. 

About  her  little  shining  head 

A wreath  of  wilding  flowers  she  wore  : 
Brown,  streaked  with  amber,  white  and  red. 
Their  like  I oft  had  seen  before. 

Yet  did  not  know  that  they  were  fair. 

Until  i>he  had  them  in  her  hair. 


2I8 


Conversations, 


How  tenderly  my  memory  notes 

Each  tithe  that  made  my  bliss  complete, 
The  very  way  her  petticoats 

Fell  dainty  round  her  twinkling  feet  ; 
And  how,  betwixt  the  stones  so  blue, 

A wild  and  straggling  brier-bush  grew ; 
And  how  the  side  against  the  sun 
Shone  with  a dozen  flowers  for  one 
Upon  the  other,  in  the  shade  ; 

That  brier-bush  a text  I made. 

And  preached  a sermon  very  wise. 

And  Mona  told  me  with  her  eyes 
She  never  heard  so  sweet  a one  ; 

That  we  would  always  live  in  the  sun. 

And  make  our  lives  on  all  sides  bright. 
And  so  we  have  done  since  that  night. 


Conversations. 


219 


V. 

j^ORGIVE  me,  but  I needs  must  press 
One  question,  since  I love  you  so ; 
And  kiss  me,  darling,  if  it's  Yes, 

And,  darling,  kiss  me  if  it 's  No ! 

It  is  about  our  marriage  day,  — 

I fain  would  have  it  even  here ; 

But  kiss  me  if  it 's  far  away, 

And,  darling,  kiss  me  if  it 's  near  ! 

Ah,  by  the  blushes  crowding  so 

On  cheek  and  brow,  't  is  near,  I guess ; 
But,  darling,  kiss  me  if  it 's  No, 

And  kiss  me,  darling,  if  it 's  Yes  ! 


220 


Conversations, 


And  with  what  flowers  shall  you  be  wed  ? 

With  flowers  of  snow  ? or  flowers  of  flame  ? 
But  be  they  white,  or  be  they  red, 

Kiss  me,  my  darling,  all  the  same  ! 

And  have  you  sewed  your  wedding  dress? 

Nay,  speak  not,  even  to  whisper  low  ; 

But  kiss  me,  darling,  if  it's  Yes, 

And,  darling,  kiss  me  if  it 's  No  ! 


Conversations. 


221 


VI. 

J WAS  blind  till  yesterday.  — '' 
Darling,  till  you  came  to  me  ? 
‘‘Ay,  my  Charley,  man  of  men,* 

I can  only  see  since  then  ! ” 

“ I was  dead  till  yesterday.” 

“ Brought  to  life  by  loving  me  ? ” 
“Ay,  and  since,  as  it  appears, 

I have  lived  a thousand  years.” 

“Tell  me,  thou  of  longer  sight. 

Was  the  world  as  fair  and  bright 
E’er  that  we  two  loved  so  well  ? ” 

‘‘  How,  my  Mona,  should  I tell  ! ” 


222 


Conversations, 


Pray  thee,  did  the  twilight  close 
Like  the  shutting  of  a rose  ? 

And  had  morn  so  fair  a brow  ? ” 

How  should  I know,  more  than  thou ! ” 

Did  the  moon’s  white  grace  invite, 
Companies  of  stars  at  night. 

And  the  sun  so  grandly  rise  ? ” 

‘‘  I have  seen  but  through  thine  eyes ! ” 


Conversations^, 


223 


VII. 

J ASKED  my  darling  once  if  she 
Could  tell  the  reason  why 
I loved  her.  Slipping  from  my  knee, 

She  shook  her  little  shining  head, 

And  with  the  tears -in  her  sweet  eyes,  said, 
‘‘  Can  I tell  the  reason  why 
You  love  me  } No,  not  I.” 

I asked  my  darling  then  to  tell 
The  reason  she  loved  me  : 

Off  from  her  face  the  shadow  fell. 

But  with  sweet  trouble  still  perplexed. 
Smiling  and  pouting,  pleased  and  vexed. 
She  said,  coming  back  to  me, 

And  sitting  on  my  knee : 


24 


Conversations. 


“ I pray  thee  to  the  lily  go, 

And  ask  her  why  she  is  white  ; 

Ask  the  rose  why  she  blushes  so  ; 

Ask  the  fountain  with  moss  o’ergrown 
How  came  the  brooklet  to  run  alone, 
Laughing  out  of  her  sight. 

From  shadows  into  the  light!'' 


I felt  my  cheek  with  shame  grow  hot. 
So  mean  it  seemed  to  be 
Questioning  love  that  questioned  not ; 
For  never  daisy  came  to  the  May 
With  sweeter  trust  than  she  that  day 
Came  and  sat  on  my  knee, 

Praising  and  kissing  me. 


Conversations, 


225 


VIII. 

''  J J OW,  my  love,  shall  I make  thy  bed  ? 

Out  of  the  field-lilies,  yellow  and  red  ? 
Nay,  on  thy  bosom  I ’ll  rest  my  head.” 

“ Where,  my  love,  shall  thy  lodging  be  ? 

By  the  rock,  or  under  the  greenwood  tree  'i  ” 
Anywhere,  so  it  is  only  with  thee  ! ” 

What  will  thy  supper  be  ? honey,  or  dew  "i 
Or  sweetest  mulberries,  black  all  through  } ” 

''  Only  thy  kisses,  so  fond  and  true.” 

Shall  I call  the  wood-dove  away  from  her  nest 

To  make  thee  a lullaby,  dearest  and  best } ” 

•> 

Nay,  in  thy  praises  I only  can  rest.” 

IS 


PART  XI. 


AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


V. 


AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

I. 

OAY,  do  you  love  me  as  in  the  olden 
Time  so  far  away, 

When  the  light  o'  my  hair  was  golden 
As  the  light  o’  the  May? 

Charley,  my  man  of  men. 

Do  you  love  me  now,  as  when 
Earth,  to  meet  the  heaven  above  it. 
Seemed  with  the  mist  to  rise. 

And  we  told  each  other  of  it. 

Talking  with  our  eyes  ? 

All  the  horns  of  the  winds  a-blowing 
Made  the  warm  wood  sweet. 


230 


A fter  Marriage. 


And  the  flowers  to  see  our  wooing 
Hid  in  the  grass  at  our  feet, 

When  by  the  brook,  so  clear, 

We  sat,  — do  you  mind,  my  dear? — ► 
How  the  deep-worn  path  of  the  cattle 
Lay  across  its  trace. 

And  with  tags  of  berry  and  nettle 
Made  a star  in  its  face  ? 

How  the  vale,  to  our  troth  agreeing. 

Shone  with  light  new-won. 

Like  a cloud  that  is  flushed  with  being 
Confidant  of  the  Sun. 

Charley,  my  man  of  men. 

Do  you  love  me  now  as  then  ? 

Winter  cometh,  so  sadly  whirling 
All  my  bloom  away. 

And  the  light  o'  my  hair  is  not,  my  darlin 
Like  the  light  o'  the  May. 


After  Marriage, 


231 


II. 

have  been  lovers  now,  my  dear, 

It  matters  nothing  to  say  how  long. 
But  still  at  the  coming  round  o'  the  year 
I make  for  my  pleasure  a little  song  ; 
And  thus  of  my  love  I sing,  my  dear, — 

So  much  the  more  by  a year,  by  a year. 

And  still  as  I see  the  day  depart, 

And  hear  the  bat  at  my  window  flit, 

I sing  the  little  song  to  my  heart. 

With  just  a change  at  the  close  of  it; 
And  thus  of  my  love  I sing  alway, — 

So  much  the  more  by  a day,  by  a day. 

When  in  the  morning  I see  the  skies 
Breaking  into  a gracious  glow. 


232 


After  Marriage, 


I say  you  are  not  my  sweetheart’s  eyes, 

Your  brightness  cannot  mislead  me  so; 
And  I sing  of  my  love  in  the  rising  light, — 
So  much  the  more  by  a night,  by  a night. 

Both  at  the  year’s  sweet  dawn  and  close, 
When  the  moon  is  filling,  or  fading  away, 
Every  day,  as  it  comes  and  goes. 

And  every  hour  of  every  day. 

My  little  song  I repeat  and  repeat, — 

So  much  the  more  by  an  hour,  my  sweet ! 


After  Marriage, 


233 


III. 

CHARITY. 

OWEETLY  we  live,  my  wife  and  I, 
Sweetly,  all  the  time. 

As  a May  rose  in  her  house  of  leaves, 
Or  a poet  in  his  rhyme. 

Oft  in  her  pale  and  quiet  cheeks 
A dash  of  red  doth  show 
Her  heart  is  fluttering  like  a wheel 
In  the  wave  of  love  below. 


234 


After  Marriage, 


I call  my  good  wife  Charity, 

And  she  blushes  at  the  name, 

Though  she  gave  the  light  of  her  hair  and  eyes 
To  our  baby,  when  it  came. 

Sweetly  we  live,  — her  gentle  brows 
Know  not  the  way  to  frown, 

And  I never  see  that  her  head  is  gray, 

And  her  shoulders  stooping  down. 


After  Marriage, 


235 


IV. 

' clouds  in  many  a windy  rack 

Are  sailing  east  and  west, 

And  sober  suns  are  bringing  back 
The  days  I love  the  best. 

The  poet,  as  he  will,  may  go 
To  Summer’s  golden  prime, 

And  set  the  roses  in  a row 
Along  his  fragrant  rhyme  ; 

But  as  for  me,  I sing  the  praise 
Of  fading  flowers  and  trees. 

For  to  my  mind  the  sweetest  days 
Of  all  the  year  are  these : — 


236 


After  Marriage, 


When  stubbly  hills  and  hazy  skies 
Proclaim  the  harvest  done, 

And  Labor  wipes  his  brow,  and  lies 
A-dreaming  in  the  sun, — 

And  idly  hangs  the  spider  on 
Her  broken  silver  stair. 

And  ghosts  of  thistles,  dead  and  gone. 
Slide  slow  along  the  air,  — 

Where  all  is  still,  unless  perhaps 
The  cricket  makes  ado. 

Or  when  the  dry-billed  heron  snaps 
Some  brittle  reed  in  two, — 

Or  school-boy  tramples  through  the  burs 
His  tangled  path  to  keep. 

Or  ripe  mast,  rustling  downward,  stirs 
The  shadows  from  their  sleep. 


After  Marriage, 


237 


Ay,  he  that  wills  it  so  may  praise 
The  lilies  and  the  bees ; 

But  as  for  me,  the  sweetest  days 
Of  all  the  year  are  these. 

My  darling,  in  the  woodland  glen 
One  hour  with  me  apart. 

And  let  us  walk  and  talk  as  when 
I gave  you  all  my  heart. 

Ah  ! wrap  you  with  your  veil  so  thin. 
And  let  us  wander  slow 

To  that  delicious  bower,  wherein 
We  courted,  long  ago. 

Where  dying  violets  scent  the  air. 

And  faint  the  ground-stars  burn  ; 

And  where  I gave  my  heart,  and  where 
You  gave  your  heart  in  turn. 


238  After  Marriage. 

We  had  a quarrel — do  you  mind?  — 
About  the  daisies’  eyes ; 

Whether  they  closed  because  the  wind 
Was  singing  lullabies. 

And  you  said  Yes,  and  I said  No, 
And  you  got  vexed  and  cried ; 

At  that  I gave  it  up,  and  lo ! 

You  took  the  other  side. 

And  you  said  No,  and  I said  Yes ; 

The  bosoms  of  the  flowers 
Were  sensitive  no  whit  the  less. 

Nor  tender  less  than  ours. 

And  you,  as  I remember  yet. 

Said  that  might  well  be  true, 

If  you  against  them  only  set 
My  tenderness  for  you. 


After  Marriage, 


239 


And  I said  — being  sorely  stung 
That  you  my  love  should  slight  — 

A woman  always  had  a tongue 
To  make  the  wrong  seem  right ! 

So  then  your  brows  you  darkly  bent, 
And  killed  me  with  a frown  ; 

And  I grew  softly  penitent, 

And  to  my  knees  went  down  ; 

And  where  that  willow  of  the  glen 
Shut  out  the  insolent  light, 

I took  you  in  my  arms,  and  then 
I kissed  you  just  for  spite ! 

Ay,  just  for  very  spite,  I said, 

But  when  your  sweet  cheek  grew 

So  painfully  and  proudly  red, 

I spoke  the  truth  to  you ; 


240  After  Marriage, 

And,  brushing  from  your  face  the  tear, 
You  gave  me  back  my  kiss. 

Nor  have  we  quarrelled  once,  my  dear, 
From  that  glad  day  to  this. 

Therefore  I leave  who  will  to  praise 
The  lilies  and  the  bees. 

For,  love  of  mine,  the  sweetest  days 
Of  all  the  year  are  these. 


Printed  at  Lake  Shore  Press,  Rouses  Point,  N.Y. 


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